


Sleepless About You (Both)

by shyverrr (akira_marq)



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Broxah is struggling but that's okay, Domestic Fluff, Dream-Reading, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flower Imagery, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Multi, Nemesis can read minds, Rekkles is struggling but that's okay, Sleeping Together, Slow Burn, TW: mention of drowning, TW: mention of self-harm, Tim is a Pure and Good Boy, a little bit of jealousy, mind-reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2019-10-19 13:43:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 55,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17602451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akira_marq/pseuds/shyverrr
Summary: Nemesis can read minds. It’s not always the greatest gift to have, especially when he can hear Youngbuck doubting him literally to his face, but when it comes to complicated situations with an ADC who’s too hard on himself and a jungler who freezes up? His abilities may come in handy after all.Set in the Spring Split of 2019.





	1. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim has been having some difficulty sleeping, ever since he joined Fnatic. It's not their fault, not really, but sometimes Tim wishes he weren't nearly so psychic as he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title: Sleep, by MCR

Tim can’t sleep.

 

It’s 3 in the morning, scrims are long since over, and he can’t muster the strength to soloQ right now, but he still can’t sleep.

 

Today, as they often are, scrims were lost. Catastrophically. After all, there’s a reason no one is commenting on Fnatic’s scrims performance - it’s just as bad as they are on-stage, and he’s starting to think that maybe, just  _ maybe _ , they should try a different strategy than putting more and more pressure onto Rekkles that he mentally cannot handle if the depressing thoughts Tim overhears are anything to go by.

 

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid, _ thinks Rekkles to himself, criticising himself so loudly that Tim is honestly surprised it isn’t a genuine vocalisation and not just a thought he can mindread. When Rekkles plays poorly, his brain screams at him, and sometimes it’s so violent that even Tim himself misses a CS because of it. 

Sometimes the harsh judgement Rekkles passes on himself is for missing a single CS. 

Tim is naturally extremely worried for his ADC - there’s no reason for him to be so hard on himself, even if he  _ did _ go 1/8 on Sivir (mistakes happen, bad days happen, but Rekkles doesn’t seem to get that). At the same time, Tim can’t act on what he mindreads. What’s he going to say, that he can hear Rekkles yelling at himself? 

He’d sound like a madman, not to mention that he barely knows the extremely attractive ADC, so it would be rather presumptuous for him to assume he knows best how to help. Still, it’s a little concerning when no one else seems to notice their carry is suffering from the weight he’s holding on his shoulders, despite the obvious signs of stress.

 

Of course, perhaps they’re too busy stressing over their own performance. Broxah, for one, gets disheartened after every poor play he makes. 

Usually Tim loves to listen to Broxah’s mind. The jungler is incessantly playing music for himself in his head, and never before has Tim been so grateful for how thoughts work. There’s no such thing as a language of thought, so he knows meanings without having to worry about languages, but words in songs are tied to the rhythms, rhymes, and beats, so the beauty of a song never changes even though Tim’s Slovenian brain naturally translates Broxah’s Danish consciousness. Tim thinks he's developed a taste for energetic electronic music. But when Broxah lets himself down, the constant humming of his mind that Tim enjoys so much cuts off with a tiny, disappointed sigh that breaks Tim’s heart.

 

Still, though, Rekkles’s critical thoughts and Broxah’s sad sighs aren’t what’s keeping Tim up at night. Rather, it’s the scrims loss, or, more accurately, what comes after the scrims losses. It turns out that his teammates have rather…  _ interesting _ ways of coping with defeat. Bwipo and Hylissang -  _ no, Gabriel and Hyli _ , Tim reminds himself, _ they said you should call them Gabriel and Hyli _ \- are understandable enough; they soloQ until their eyes are dry from the screen, minds either untilted by soothing words from their girlfriends or too exhausted to think loudly enough for Tim to know the difference, and that’s honestly pretty relatable considering Werlyb did the exact same thing on Mad Lions. 

 

Instead, it’s Broxah and Rekkles’s coping mechanisms that are quite peculiar. Rekkles, for one, masturbates. 

One night before Tim knows about Rekkles’s odd habits, Tim lets down the mental walls he builds during the day in the hopes of relaxing a bit before he sleeps, only to be hit full force by a powerful stream of consciousness from Rekkles’s room. 

The Swede is fucking himself forcefully with his fingers, bottle of lube by his side and gay porn on his phone screen in front of him. It would seem Tim managed to avoid the worst of it, only catching the end, but to his dismay Rekkles goes for round two.

There’s no other way around it - Tim has to keep the walls up until Rekkles is done. The simple image of such a pretty person doing…  _ that _ … is just too much for his young, semi-innocent mind, and he’s bright red just from the few seconds he had his walls down. But keeping the walls up is too attention-intensive for him to do while sleeping. He’s never really had to build those walls except for when he left the house; never had to live without his dampening crystal, a beautiful golden orb of Slovenian wulfenite the size of both of his fists put together that soaks up nearby thoughts and prevents them from radiating into his mind. 

If he wants to avoid being a voyeur, Tim has no choice but to stay awake until Rekkles is done.

 

More than that, though, Tim often has to stay up indefinitely because of what goes on in the room on the other side of his. Every once in a while he curses the fact that he’s a mid-laner, because he’s caught between the two most active minds on the team, with Rekkles’s room on one side of his own and Broxah behind the other wall. And while Broxah doesn’t masturbate after a loss, -  _ Oh gosh, I don’t think I could handle that _ , thinks Tim - he instead sleeps and dreams. 

 

Usually dreamers don’t matter too much to Tim. Most dreamers tend to dream quietly, just the way that most sleeptalkers mumble, and project their sleepy visions extremely weakly; in fact, Tim remembers his  _ babica _ , the strongest mind-reader he knows, having to press her forehead to his sister’s in order to read her dreams, even though familial relations make mindreading a million times easier. 

Broxah, though, seems to be the exception. He dreams loudly, broadcasting his thoughts so forcefully that Tim can hear the faint sounds even through the thickest mental walls he can muster. Worse yet, Broxah dreams of relationships - of cuddling, of kissing, of  _ fucking _ , and, let’s be real here, Tim can’t really be faulted for not wanting to know about the intricacies of his jungler’s love life since he feels weird about eavesdropping on the thoughts of someone he may or may not have a romantic interest in. 

 

The people in the dreams certainly don’t help, either.

Broxah dreams sometimes of Caps, other times of Rekkles, other times still he dreams of both of them held close to his buff chest or fucked up, moaning his name, coming hard, clenching around him, blissed out on the bed next to him…

_ Dammit, I had almost gotten that out of my mind, too… _

Forget the lewd dreams, though, because it gets worse (or better, if Tim’s looking to date).

 

Yes, sometimes Broxah dreams of Caps.

More often now, he dreams of Tim.

And Tim’s mental blocks aren’t strong enough to keep those thoughts out.

 

He can’t stop seeing himself surrounded by Broxah’s arms, being kissed over and over until he’s grinning and blushing despite his shy manner, giggling and kissing Broxah back. Groaning softly as Broxah presses two fingers into him. Throwing his head back when Broxah enters him, gasping Broxah’s real name, moaning as Rekkles’s hands wander his torso, making out with Rekkles while Broxah’s eyes never leave his body…

 

_ Fucking dammit! _

 

Tim resigns himself to another sleepless night.


	2. Walking In My Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The text is from Mihael, and, if Tim's being honest, it's rather sweet of the support. Then again, Miky's the sweetest, kindest, most selfless guy Tim knows, so it's not really all that surprising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title: Walking In My Sleep, by Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness  
> a note about slashes (/) in my works: when used around text /like this/ slashes indicate a different language being spoken or written.  
> yeah so uhhh here's ~3750 words of more background stuff; for all you commenters that i promised some good old Rekkles Suffering™ to, that's coming next chapter ;)  
> update schedule: nonexistent :/ but this fic ain't getting abandoned any time soon

_/Are you still up?/_

 

The text is from Mihael, written in their shared Slovenian language, and it doesn’t surprise Tim at all that the support who’s like a big brother to him just knows that he’s still awake.

 

_/How did you know? lol/_

 

_/Just a feeling, I guess :P/_

 

Tim has often thought that Miky may very well have a subtle affinity for mindreading. From knowing when he’s awake to where he is in the LEC facilities even to knowing if Tim’s sadly playing soloQ after a loss, Miky seems to have a sixth sense for what people close to him are doing, and Tim is proud to call himself a good friend of Miky’s. Yet the other Slovene isn’t quite so apt at picking up nearby strangers’ thoughts as Tim is, so perhaps it’s just a weak inheritance of familial psychic abilities.

In any case, they’re chatting through text at 4 in the morning. Tim’s only had a few minutes of real sleep, the rest of it marred by dreams that make him blush and shake himself awake because he’s already in his teammates’ heads, he doesn’t need them in his heart.

 

_/Did you get up early or something?/_

 

_/lol./_

_/no/_

_/Been laying in bed for a while/_

_/I just can’t sleep./_

 

_/Oof/_

_/That sucks/_

 

Hah. Yeah, it does.

 

_/What’s keeping you up?/_

 

_/um/_

_/It’s kind of a long story/_

_/Better to talk in person I think/_

 

_/We can meet after you sleep a bit?/_

 

_/sure/_

_/coffeehouse?/_

 

_/Yessssss/_

_/Coffeeeeeeee/_

_/See you then/_

 

_/Ok, see you then/_

 

_/Go to sleep now!/_

 

_/I’ll try lol/_

 

_/You will succeed!/_

_/I believe in you :D/_

 

_/Thanks :]/_

_/Goodnight I guess?/_

 

_/Lol/_

_/Goodnight :D/_

 

Thankfully Rekkles has moved on from jerking it to scrolling through social media, Broxah’s dreams have finally let up, and everyone else’s thoughts are soft, sleepy, and far away so Tim can keep his word to Mihael and finally fall asleep, if only for a few scant hours.

 

\---

 

Tim wakes up a short time later feeling vaguely improved, and dashes to meet Mihael at a small coffee shop just down the street from the LEC studios. It’s well-known among LEC players for having some of the best coffee and prices, as well as being the perfect place to meet up with dates, friends, or teams to sit and chat awhile, and Tim takes a corner table as he waits for Miky to show up. After a few minutes, Mihael does - and with an oddly-positioned scarf around his neck.

 

“ _Živjo, Lipov!_ ” chirps Mihael, excitedly sitting across from Tim and repositioning his scarf.

“/Hello, yourself,/” replies Tim in Slovenian, much more calmly, though whether that’s from patience or exhaustion, Miky can’t quite tell.

“/Did you order yet?/”

“/No,/” replies Tim somewhat bashfully. “/I don’t know enough German to order,/” he admits, and Miky laughs lightheartedly.

He shakes his head in mock disapproval. “/Come on, Tim, you’re just as bad as Marcin! No, wait, he’s worse,/” giggles Mihael, “/because he’s been living in Germany for _years_ and still hasn’t learned how to order!/”

 

Tim rolls his eyes fondly at the way Mihael could talk for hours about his G2 teammates, all of whom he has crushes on, but he asks Mihael to get him something and then pulls out a few euro to pay him back. As he always does, Mihael refuses the money, then grabs Tim’s hand to make him stand in line and order for himself. The barista is a pretty girl with short red hair and grey eyes like winter seas off Norway cliffs, who helpfully corrects his pronunciation of the German words, then grins and bustles to get their drinks in a hurry while Miky ruffles Tim’s hair.

 

“/So, eh, why were _you_ up at 4?/” asks Tim, more interested in listening to his brother-figure talk than sharing the secret that’s been burdening him.

Mihael giggles, picking up their drinks with a “ _Danke_ ” and sitting back down at their corner table. “/Okay that wasn’t my fault! Rasmus sometimes kicks when he sleeps and it woke me up. I guess next time we’ll just have wrap him up in blankets or something./”

 

Hold up.

 

“/Wait, you’re sleeping with Caps now?/” That’s new. The last Tim had heard, Miky was just teasing and flirting with pretty much everyone on G2, not actually dating any one of them.

“/What? I didn’t tell you?/”

“/Uh, no?/”

“/Man, have I got a story for you, then./”

 

Miky sets down his coffee and leans in. After a few short minutes, Tim is fully caught up on the latest G2 gossip - mainly that Jankos, Perkz, and Wunder have been a threesome for a while, and they’ve added Caps and Miky to the group.

Mihael, though, is more than just the kindest support in LEC; he’s also a disgusting oversharer, particularly when it comes to Tim, because Miky loves to tease the mid-laner and make his friend flustered. Of course the natural progression for Miky is to move from talking about his relationships to the way his new boyfriends love him - that is, fuck him - and Tim nearly spits out his hot chocolate when Miky moves the scarf around his neck to reveal a large collection of deep purple hickeys.

“/Come on man, don’t tell me you’re not jealous,/” giggles Miky, and Tim has never before been so grateful that pretty much no one in Berlin speaks Slovenian.

“/ _Please_ never tell me about your sex life again,/” Tim says, once he’s fully recovered from a coughing fit.

 

“/Okayyyy, okay. So why were you up at 4? You said it was a long story, so start at the beginning I guess./”

“/Yeah. Umm… So… Okay, you won’t think I’m crazy?/”

 

Mihael rolls his eyes and grins lopsidedly, responding that, “/I just told you I’m dating the best top in EU, the First Blood King, Baby Faker, and Luka fucking Perkovič; if anything I’m the one who’s crazy here./” But Tim doesn’t even crack a smile at Miky’s joke, so he continues: “/I won’t, I promise./”

“/All right… So. You know how there are those fairytales about people who can read minds?/”

Miky nods his head. He’s heard the stories about witches who read the minds of their prey and heroes who used their powers to get to the heart of villainous matters, and he remembers how he loved tales like those in his childhood.

“/Well, I can…/” Tim takes a deep breath, braces himself for ridicule, and says it. “/I’m one of those people./”

 

But instead of mocking comments, all he gets is Miky’s lopsided grin and a little chuckle. “/Really? My little brother reads minds, too! But what does that have to do with sleeping?/”

Tim’s never been more relieved to find acceptance for his talents, but there’s still so many more questions. “/Do you know how to block other people’s thoughts? Did your brother tell you how hard it is to do that?/” Tim is genuinely unsure of just how far Mihael’s education on mindreading goes - he’s spoken with relatives of his own that barely knew a thing about the family gift, so Miky may be just as ignorant. Thankfully Miky knows exactly what he’s talking about.

“/Yeah. But don’t you have like, a crystal or something? Marzel has a crystal./”

“/I did, but… it got lost in the move,/” says Tim, dropping his head in his hands in annoyance and exhaustion. “/No idea where it is now./”

 

“/Soooo? Put it all together for me, Nemmy, I’m not quite getting it./”

“/I can’t sleep because I can’t block out everyone’s thoughts,/” whines Tim. “/Broxah dreams like a loudspeaker and Rekkles…/”

Miky raises an eyebrow. “/Rekkles?/”

“/He… stays up late./” Tim would like to think he keeps a straight face, but his eyes dodge to the side and a faint blush colours his face.

“/And even that keeps you up, hmm?/” Miky doesn’t seem to expect an answer to his teasing, though, instead asking Tim, “/Do you need a… what’s it called, a dampening stone then?/”

“/Yeah, but my parents can’t get one sent out for a couple weeks, at least./” He sighs and drinks more hot chocolate, wincing when it’s a touch too hot for his tastes, silently missing home and the natural quietness from the crystal he had in his room.

 

Mihael hums without meaning, just letting Tim know he’s there for him, then speaks. “/Does wulfenite work for you? Or did you use cinnabar?/”

“/Wulfenite,/” replies Tim easily. “/Cinnabar is stronger but it’s poisonous, so wulfenite works pretty well for me at least./” He sips his drink again before asking, “/Why?/”

 

It turns out that Miky’s from a mining town, a tiny blip on the map in the quiet forests of Slovenia, where there’s wulfenite aplenty. And while Tim’s luck may have left him before, it sure hasn’t now: Mihael’s family will be visiting in a couple days for Week 2 of LEC, and they can bring Tim not only a personal charm for added protection while out and about, but even a large crystal cluster to soak up all the psychic energy in his room or at his desk and divert it away from Tim’s overstimulated mind. Of course Tim can’t turn down such a generous offer, so he and Miky set a date a few days in the future for more coffee and another calming chat.

 

“/You’re a lifesaver, Mikyky,/” says Tim, standing up and hugging the support as they leave the coffeeshop.

“/It’s nothing, bro!/” Mihael squeezes him back and, noticing how the relief from constant stress has allowed the built-up sleep-deprivation to finally catch up to tired Tim, keeps a hand on his shoulder, guiding him and supporting him as they make their way through the metro system.

 

Tim’s practically sleepwalking, he’s so exhausted.

 

Finally they get onto the right line and take their seats in the mostly-vacant car, where Tim sleepily leans on Miky’s shoulder.

As soon as his head hits Miky’s body, though, Tim jerks himself awake. “ _Sranje, oprostite_.” He rubs at his eyes, trying to push the drowsiness away, but it’s no use; the world is spinning around him and he can barely keep his eyes open even though the metro seats are hard and uncomfortable. The warmth in his stomach from the hot chocolate and the relative quiet of the metro car combine to push Tim closer into the arms of sleep, and at this point, he’s so far gone that it’s plain to see, so Mihael tells him not to worry about it.

 

“/Honestly man, just sleep. I’ll wake you up when we get to your stop./”

“/Thank you Mikyyyyyyy,/” says Tim, “/I don’t know what I’d do without you./” He thinks he hears Mihael respond, but he’s simply exhausted, and falls asleep before he fully comprehends the presumably-kind response.

 

\---

 

“Nemmy? Nemmmmmyyyyyyy… Tim, _zbudi!_ ”

 

With the help of a little jostling and a sharp elbow to Tim’s ribs, Miky finally wakes him up, and the mid-laner blearily rubs at his eyes again, breathing deeply to shake off the sleepiness.

“/It’s almost your stop,/ _kolega_ ,” Mihael points out, and as Tim looks up at the glowing LED display, he sees that Miky’s right - in fact, here’s his stop now.

 

“ _Hvala_ ,” Tim says, thanking Miky for everything. They’ll be seeing each other on Sunday, of course, but the support is such an immense help to Tim that no amount of thanks seems like enough even though they’re like brothers to each other.

“ _Se vidimo,_ ” Miky replies, waving through a window as the metro departs again, off to his own stop. Tim waves back until the train is out of sight, then starts on his way to the Fnatic apartment.

 

\---

 

When Tim gets back to the gaming house and settles down for some soloQ, he finds that Broxah is right there waiting for him.

 

“Where were you?” asks his jungler. “I went up to your room this morning to duoQ and you weren’t there.”

“I went to get coffee with Miky,” Tim replies, booting up his computer and logging in to League. As he does, he notices an odd sort of negative emotion swirling through Broxah’s mind, shading every thought Tim can hear with a tinge of darkness and heaviness to the timbre of the sound, and it’s the first time he’s ever heard the jungler’s mind have that sort of vaguely angry, annoyed tone. “We can duo now if you want.”

 

“Okay. This game is almost over, it’ll just be a minute or two.” Tim rolls his chair close to see Broxah’s screen and he’s farming a few camps before following the rest of his team in attacking the respawned enemy inhib, so the time estimate seems right. Tim flexes his fingers to warm them up a bit while he waits. “So was it like a date?” Broxah continues, and, though he does his best to sound nonjudgemental and neutral, the shadows in his thoughts deepen. Tim, on the other hand, is completely blindsided by the question despite his mindreading abilities, and it leaves him stammering for a second while his brain tries to catch up with Broxah’s meaning.

 

“What? A date? With Miky? Definitely not,” he finally says, laughing at the absurdity and accepting the jungler’s invite as soon as it pops up in the client. “Why?”

“No reason, I was just curious.”

“Okay.” Tim giggles and looks over at Broxah, who fiddles with his client a bit before looking back at him. Tim’s still smiling.

 

“You’re sure it wasn’t a date? You seem pretty happy after seeing him.”

“Yes, I’m sure. I’m happy to be duoQ-ing with you,” says Tim with that same radiant sunshine smile, and Tim immediately notices its effect on Broxah, whose thoughts grow lighter and lose much of the irked heaviness they had only seconds ago and who scrunches up his nose and grins back at Tim.

“Well, the feeling is mutual, my fluffy mid-laner.” Broxah reaches over and ruffles Tim’s hair, then returns to whatever he’d been poking at while in queue. Tim’s glad Broxah turned away, because he’s blushing more than a bit at the lingering feeling of Broxah’s hands in his hair and really his mild infatuation is just embarrassing at this point.

 

Still, when Tim overhears Broxah’s thoughts while they’re in laning phase, there’s still that unusual shade. Even the baritone humming is tainted with a dark edge. If Tim didn’t know better, he would think Broxah was jealous of the time he’d spent with Miky, but that just doesn’t make sense - sure, Tim may be in Broxah’s dreams, but he’s not so sure that translates to being in Broxah’s heart.

 

Broxah? Jealous of Miky and wanting Tim to go on coffee dates with him? _Un-fucking-likely_ , thinks Tim.

 

\---

 

A few days and two LEC losses later, Tim finally meets up with Miky again. They go to the same place, talk to the same helpful barista, and get the same coffee and hot chocolate, but this time they get it to go and head to a nearby park where it’s a little less busy.

 

As soon as they sit down in the grass, Miky pulls out a small jewellery box and a larger cardboard box, taped up at the top, and pushes them over to Tim. In exchange, a collection of high-quality candies is nudged into Mihael’s hands.

“Tiiiiiiim, /you know you didn’t have to get me anything,/ _kolega_.”

“/I know I didn’t _have_ to, but this is actually so nice of you! I had to thank you somehow,/” says Tim, marvelling at the strength of the crystal cluster in the box - he gingerly drops the mental walls and finds that the din of the city is quieted to a dull roar, a vast improvement compared to the typically-overwhelming noise, and that’s even through the walls of the box.

 

“/Well, thank you, then,/” says Miky with a grin, and he chatters on for a bit about how excited Caps will be when he finds the candies - apparently the G2 mid-laner has an insane sweet tooth. They converse over their teammates for a bit, Mihael teasing him about Broxah and Rekkles all the while, before Miky has to leave and see his parents off.

 

Tim’s so excited that he can barely sit still on the train, can barely keep from fucking skipping down the street, can barely stop himself from running to his room to set up the larger “mother” crystal and put on his brand-new dampening necklace; though he definitely bounces up the stairs with more enthusiasm than ever before. He neatly removes the tape from the box - yeah, he’s excited, but he’s not going to tear it open like a child - and places the crystal cluster on his desk.

 

It’s a pretty big cluster, about the size of his outstretched hand and as wide around as his fist, with well-formed squares of vibrant orange wulfenite that goes well with the Fnatic colour scheme and a bit of grey stone holding it all together. And Miky, the dear, even put a base on it so the rock won’t scuff up his desk! Tim really should have gotten him something else; sweets can’t possibly thank Miky enough.

 

Immediately Tim can feel the soft weight of the crystal’s natural walls around his mind like a blanket, and just like always he’s amazed at how simple rocks can do such wonderful things. Something about wulfenite soaks up the mental noise nearby, and while dampeners have their limits - they don’t work well through physical obstructions, only have about the range of a room if that, and small dampeners really only work on the person they’re touching - it’s still a fantastic thing to have.

There was no one upstairs to begin with, so Tim can’t get that jarringly gorgeous sense of silence from the crystal’s presence, but after opening the mother crystal he can’t wait to put on the necklace, so he quickly turns and opens it.

 

The necklace is just as wondrous as the mother crystal. It’s made of the same bright wulfenite in a perfectly rough-hewn prism. It’s wrapped in a single strand of copper wire that neatly encloses it with a wrap around the sides and hooks the crystal onto the leather string, tied in a knot at just the right length to hang over Tim’s heart, well-hidden from view.

 

As soon as he puts it on, there’s an overwhelming sense of peace. Suddenly, there’s nothing in his brain but his own thoughts. It’s quiet, near silent, compared to what he normally hears.

And it’s gorgeous.

 

Tim chills out in his room enjoying the feeling for a while before he’s pleasantly surprised by Broxah knocking on his door asking to duoQ - no more hearing thoughts as they approach; now Tim will have to rely on what he physically hears, not what his mindreading abilities pick up. Naturally, he follows his jungler into the gaming room, boots up his computer, and loads straight into League.

But Tim can’t stop his hands from wandering to his neck, running a finger over the leather cord of his necklace, drawing the crystal out to marvel at in wonder and gratefulness.

 

“What’s that?” asks Broxah, noticing the addition to his mid-laner’s person.

Again, Tim is caught off-guard by a sudden comment. It might take him a while to get used to the peace of the places around him, now that his pendant will naturally put up the walls that he expended so much energy to create before. “It’s a necklace,” he teases, toying with the wulfenite crystal as he accepts the now-popped queue.

Broxah tilts his head from side to side, apparently pondering the situation at hand. “Who’s it from?”

“Miky,” is the easy reply from Tim’s side as he and Broxah choose their champions and begin outfitting their runes.

 

“You’re sure you’re not dating him? It’s fine if you are,” says Broxah. There’s an odd tremour to his voice, a broken quaver that’s well-hidden by the deep tones, so well-hidden that Tim doesn't even notice, without the emotional cues of Broxah’s thoughts to clue him in.

“Yeah,” says Tim with a giggle, “still not dating Miky.” To Tim, the mere thought of dating Mihael is amusing, as though the two of them would be better off as a couple rather than friends when in reality the exact opposite is true.

And as for what Broxah thinks about Tim and Miky?

 

Well, with the crystal around his neck, Tim isn’t reading Broxah’s mind.

 

\---

 

Late that night, Tim wonders how Broxah and Rekkles are doing. It’s almost eerily peaceful and quiet in his brain, and, just for a moment, he wants to hear their thoughts again, if for nothing other than the loose companionship his abilities offer. With the crystal cluster in his bedroom, Tim can’t passively hear their thoughts, but if he focuses his powers hard enough, he can cut through the dampening powers of his crystals and hear the world outside. He’s sleepy but disciplined, so mustering the concentration to dig a little hole through the mental walls of his crystals is easy enough, and when he carefully peeks into Rekkles’s thoughts, he’s unsurprised to see the same typical events occurring in the ADC’s room.

 

Quickly Tim pulls back, closes up the gap to avoid seeing things he… well, it’s not like he _doesn’t_ want to see Rekkles like that, he just thinks it’s kind of intrusive. Instead, Tim reaches out to Broxah’s mind.

 

The results there are much the same: another dream. But this one involves Tim himself and a very different scenario as Tim listens and watches in.

“ _Fuuuuuck, Mads, please_ ,” begs dream-Tim in Broxah’s mind. Tim watches embarrassedly on as his dream-self gets roughly fingered by Broxah, and, somewhere in his drowsy brain, he finds the capacity to physically blush at what he’s seeing.

But whatever dream-Tim is begging for isn’t given to him. Instead, dream-Broxah says in a growl, “ _Did you beg this pretty for Miky, too?_ ”

He does something with a twist of his fingers that makes dream-Tim cry out and writhe on the bed, “ _No, no, never, only you and Martin!_ ” and Broxah seems to be satisfied with that, fucking dream-Tim harder with his hands until all that can be heard is pleas of “ _Mads, Mads, yessss, Mads please!_ ”

 

_Holy shit_ , thinks Tim to himself, _dream-me is a_ slut _._

 

But real-Tim is exhausted, and slowly pulls back from Broxah’s dream as he loses the wakefulness to concentrate on keeping that space in the dampening field open. Before Tim fully draws away, he notices something. That same deep (jealous?) weight that had clung to Broxah’s thoughts about Tim and Miky were present thousandfold in Broxah’s dream.

 

If Tim were any less tired, maybe he’d stay sleepless and think about it more.

 

But as it is, the poor boy is nearly dead on his feet, and he falls into slumber with open arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mikyx, Nemesis, and Crownshot are Slovenian Friends™  
> also mikyx if youre reading this i swear im not a stalker, your brothers name was said in the misfits origin story video and uhhh sorry if that makes you uncomfortable (but tbh i feel like theres probably bigger uncomfortables if youre actually reading this which you probably arent but just in case y'know)


	3. No One's Here to Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've just won against Rogue, their first win of the Split, and - understandably - they're thrilled. Broxah is hugging him close. Everyone's partying. But Rekkles takes a bottle of vodka to his room, and that's when Tim begins to worry.
> 
> One hour later, the trouble begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title: No One's Here to Sleep, by Naughty Boy ft. Bastille.  
> TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of self-harm, mention of blood, mentions of whirlpools/waves, mention of drowning  
> stay safe, everyone! if this chapter could affect you extremely negatively, send me a message on here or Twitter or Tumblr and i would be happy to edit a version for you.
> 
> notes: there's a lot of scene-switching which may get confusing. italicised paragraphs are meant to indicate switching to scene 2 as opposed to scene 1. hopefully that helps :)  
> also we're just gonna pretend this isnt like a month late. it's 10,000+ words so uhhhh yeah that's why it took so long  
> sorry 'bout that

The night before they face Rogue, Tim is sick with worry. The anxiety over what happens if they lose to Rogue, the fear of the ridicule and hate from the community, the secondhand nervousness he’s getting just from seeing his teammates’ jitters… even the crystals aren’t enough to ensure a good night’s sleep for him.

 

But, finally.

 

Finally, finally they win.

 

Finally they take down someone.

 

Finally, they get a victory as a team.

 

\---

 

When Fnatic get back to their gaming house, Youngbuck breaks out the alcohol, and the team toast to a better Week 4 with cheap vodka blended with juice - except for Tim, who sips straight juice. He hasn’t had a drop of alcohol since one fateful night when he and the rest of Mad Lions got shitfaced drunk. It wasn’t an experience he hoped to repeat, as Tim lost the capability to control his tongue and keep his mind from reaching out to everything around it, reading people he didn’t want to read, invading the thoughts of his friends… 

 

He would much rather stay in control of his abilities, thank you very much.

 

So while the rest of Fnatic take shots and drink copious amounts of alcohol, Tim doesn’t touch a glass of the stuff despite the pressure from Youngbuck and Bwipo -  _ Gabriel, dammit _ . Instead, he leans into Broxah when the jungler defends him from Youngbuck’s held-out shot glass. It’s odd for him to have a muscular arm around his shoulders, but he’s not complaining; rather, he’s enjoying Broxah’s tipsy company and the way that he doesn’t even have to read Broxah’s mind to listen to the music, what with him humming vocally now.

But where Tim doesn’t drink, Rekkles goes straight the other way. Not only does he take shots with the team, he drinks his fair share for about an hour, then grabs the remaining half-bottle of vodka and retreats to his room, much to Tim’s worry. Alcohol and bad thoughts, the kind that Rekkles seems to have on an hourly basis,  _ really _ do not mix.

 

An hour or so later, Tim is unfortunately proven right.

 

Four minutes after the clock strikes midnight, the wulfenite shard hanging protectively around Tim’s neck heats up intensely; at first it’s just warm but it soon starts to feel as though it’s burning his chest. He sadly disentangles himself from Broxah’s embrace and walks to his room as calmly as he can despite how its heat is almost unbearable. As soon as he knows he’s safe from watchful eyes, he tears the necklace out from under his chest and off his neck, only to have his mind assaulted by screaming sobs from Rekkles’s room and his eyes near-blinded by how violently the wulfenite both in his hands and on his desk is shining.

 

This sort of phenomenon, where the dampening crystals overheat and thoughts like knives, thoughts  _ of _ knives, pierce Tim’s mind, has only ever happened to him once before.

 

When he walked in on his best friend cutting a deep line length-wise down the veins in his arm.

 

Back then, the thoughts were louder even through the incredibly potent crystal Tim had, so he knows that the current situation isn’t quite so dire as suicide but it worries him nonetheless. He runs to Rekkles’s room.

 

Tim fumbles with the doorknob for only a second before he throws the door open,  _ oh thank God it wasn’t locked _ , and there sits Rekkles cross-legged on the bed, just as Tim had feared, with a razor blade in hand. He’s shaking. His thoughts are screaming. The blade is slightly dripping and sharp, poised mere centimeters away from his arm, where thin pale scars and small glistening-red beads already mar his skin, and with the help of a little moonlight Tim can see more raised lines on Rekkles’s legs.

 

“Rekkles?”

Tim cautiously moves closer, taking each step gingerly and slowly as though approaching a wounded tiger. In the back of his mind, that’s what Tim compares Rekkles to - beautiful, powerful, strong, capable,  _ dangerous _ , but to whom exactly, neither of them is sure. Tim quietly closes the door behind him. Rekkles is still shaking but he seems to be in a trance, moving the edge of the blade ever closer to his skin even as Tim speaks.

 

“Rekkles, put the razor down.”

At the gently-spoken command Rekkles’s eyes flicker over to Tim. They burn with the intensity of a pounding waterfall, boring into Tim with the same judgemental hate that Tim knows Rekkles focuses on himself all too often.

 

“Why should I?!” he hysterically screams. “We’re celebrating about ONE WIN?”

“Rekkles…” warns Tim, still creeping closer, hunching down to make his already-nonthreatening figure even less of a scare. He knows a few tricks, this isn’t his first rodeo, he knows how to soothe anger and jagged temperaments.

“We, the World Finalists, happy after going 1-5?!” The blade is getting dangerously close to Rekkles’s arm, but Tim knows he doesn’t realise it, can reach into his mind effortlessly without the wulfenite around his neck or the need to block out his teammates’ thoughts. The ones downstairs are already drunk enough that they’re sleeping or quietly thinking to themselves. He can devote the entirety of his ability to finding out exactly what Rekkles needs right now, much to his relief, and it’s as simple as keeping his attention on Rekkles.

 

“We’re happy about getting better-”

Tim tries his best to stall and soothe Rekkles while he delves into his ADC’s thoughts, but he’s cut off by that very same man. “I’m fucking useless!”

 

“Rekkles, you know that’s not true-”

“I went 0/8 on SIVIR! Don’t lie to me!”

“One game means nothing, you kn-”

 

“IF I CAN’T EVEN FUCKING PLAY, THEN WHY FUCKING LIVE?!” 

 

_ Oh shit. _

 

Tim was worried before, yeah, but now? He’s almost in panic mode.

 

“Once I’m washed up there’s nothing left for me anymore,” Rekkles snarls, quickly losing his energy and falling into choked mutterings rather than yells. “Why even fucking bother. I didn’t even graduate  _ high school _ . I’m useless.”

 

By now, Tim is almost at the ADC’s side, timidly reaching out a hand to see how close he can get before Rekkles lashes out - if he lashes out. “That doesn’t matter,” he soothes, but Rekkles isn’t having it.

“The only thing I was ever good at was playing fucking games on the internet! And I’m shit at that too.” Rekkles’s typically serene face is contorted in a manic growl, eyes flint-sharp and lips twisted in a fierce, angry grimace.

 

_ The emotions swirling in Martin’s brain make a dark whirlpool of hurt and snarling sounds, its waves rushing at Tim with violence in mind and he’s glad he’s so in control of his own emotions because otherwise the whirlpool would suck him right in. _

 

“Rekkles, hand me the razor.” Tim is right next to him now, kneeling down at the bedside so he seems even smaller, even less threatening. From this close, he can see just how much Rekkles has been through - his eyes are puffy and red, dried-out tear tracks run down his face, a plethora of raised lines lay dashed up and down his arms, a few droplets of blood rest on a piece of plastic wrap in his lap, and two thin lines along his entire forearm look freshly done.

“Why-” Rekkles begins.

 

And maybe it’s a tiny breach of privacy for Tim to dive so deep into the thoughts of his teammate, but honestly? Fuck the rules. Fuck the morals, fuck the ‘high ground’, fuck all the stupid things Tim’s family told him about not getting involved in solving other people’s problems. Tim has always had a soft spot for people in need.

Rekkles  _ needs _ him right now.

 

_ He takes a deep dive into Rekkles’s mind, swims down through the shadowy waters, hits bottom and steadies himself before breathing liquid and seeking any trace of light in the abyss. Once he finds it, he knows. Forget the rest of the ocean, that thin ray of light is what Tim reaches for, and, just as he suspected, it’s the real Rekkles - or at least what’s left of him.  _

_ It’s the one who has had his heart broken a thousand times, it’s the one who’s fallen in love a thousand times and one,it’s the one who elatedly hugs his teammates after a hard-won battle on the Rift, it’s the one who feels like crying but is attacked for doing so, it’s the one who lies behind the Captain’s brave face, it’s the one who wants a respite from the noise, it’s the one who desperately needs saving but isn’t sure how to save himself. _

_ This is the one who Tim focuses his attentions on, lifting Rekkles to the surface with ease. He reads thoughts on his way up. What he finds isn’t surprising.  _

 

Rekkles doesn’t want to hurt. He doesn’t want to feel the pain of all the letdowns and all the disappointment, doesn’t want to face the people he’s sure will hate him, doesn’t want to deal with the noise another day. He doesn’t want to make the same mistakes over and over again. 

At the same time, he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. It’s all a haze of fleeting happiness and lasting aches, and poor Rekkles, he’s unmoored, adrift in the deceitful, fogged-over ocean of the demons in his head.

He just doesn’t want to feel lost. He just wants the pain to end.

 

“I know you don’t want to hurt yourself any more,” says Tim, sitting together in that little room, and Rekkles chokes on a sob. “Hand me the razor.”

 

Rekkles bursts into tears, but finally Tim’s words make it to the surface. That tiny piece of Rekkles’s mind that is him and only him holds the weapon out with still-shaking hands. Gently, Tim takes it from him, doing everything he can to broadcast a soothing, gentle aura that should calm even those who can’t mindread, and once the dense fog of war in Rekkles’s mind lightens to a faint mist, Tim sits down.

 

Carefully keeping the weapon out of his view and leaning nearer with caution, Tim asks, “Will you be alright if I go to get some bandages?” He hates to leave the ADC like this but he has no other choice. He needs the first-aid kit in his room.

Rekkles sniffles, but nods mechanically, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. Tim softly sighs. He hasn’t really gotten through to Rekkles yet, not in the slightest, hasn’t even come close to calming the rough waves in his mind.

 

Just as lightly as he sat down, Tim stands up and starts to leave the room when he hears Rekkles think,  _ He’s not coming back. He thinks I’m weak now, too. _ Tim’s eyes tear up when Rekkles’s mind sighs brokenly,  _ Everyone leaves. _

Tim stops in his tracks. He sets the razor on the corner of the dresser, right next to the door, and turns around, returning to Rekkles’s side and sitting next to him again, pulling him into a hug while also watching out for his bleeding arm. “I’ll be right back. I’ll be back in two minutes, I promise. Okay?”

“Okay.” And just with that simple reassurance, Tim has quieted the tempest winds and furies in Rekkles’s head. There’s now a trace of peace in Rekkles’s tone, hidden underneath many waves of sadness and angry crashing to be sure but a hint of true peace nonetheless.

 

Tim darts over to his room with the razor, tucking it behind his alarm clock so he won’t forget to dispose of it later, and digs through his belongings to find a small first aid kit with gauze and antiseptic wipes. For a second he considers taking his wulfenite charm with him, but he decides against it. 

He’ll need all his senses fully engaged and about him tonight.

 

\---

 

When Tim returns to Rekkles’s room, the ADC is staring forlornly at the twin slashes in his arm with the same half-vacant, half-manic look in his eyes that he’d had when Tim first burst in through the door. The whirlpool is no less violent for the relative peace of the critical voices, so, in the same way he did before, Tim moves slow and steady, taking a seat on the bed.

 

“Rekkles? Give me your hand?” he asks, not wanting to set him off into another fit of mental screams. Rekkles’s mind is quieter now, but Tim can tell that it’s not a peaceful quiet; it’s a muttering, hissing, growling quiet that will tear Rekkles apart just as much as the roaring violence from before. 

Rekkles holds out his arm again, moving so mechanically like he’s still mentally drowning even though Tim dragged him up from the depths, and Tim gently turns it so the moonlight gives him a better view. Just as he’d thought, the cuts aren’t deep, and will require only the antiseptics he’d brought plus a bit of gauze and a week or so to heal up, as long as Rekkles doesn’t reopen them. Tim scoots closer to Rekkles so neither has to stretch uncomfortably. “I have to clean it. This might sting a bit.” 

 

Rekkles sniffles and leans still closer to Tim, laying his head on Tim’s shoulder as Tim takes out an antiseptic wipe. When he tears it open, Rekkles twists his head sharply, hiding his face in Tim’s neck. It surprises Tim at first, but with the thoughts easily radiating into his mind as though they’re one and the same, he can see that Rekkles just hates the scent of disinfectants - and a shock of heat runs through Tim’s face at the realisation that Rekkles is breathing deep lungfuls of his scent in an attempt to cover up the hospital-smell. Tim had better get himself under control before… Better to not think about it.

Tim takes a steadying breath, then applies the wipe to Rekkles’s skin; at the first touch of hydrogen peroxide to his fresh wounds, Rekkles makes a noise of pain, a sudden sharp intake of breath, and Tim finds himself apologising. But with more soothing shushes, the rest of the disinfecting process goes smoothly.

 

It’s when Tim begins to wrap a thin layer of gauze along Rekkles’s forearm that the last traces of fog dissipate and the reality of the situation seems to sink in. “I can’t even fucking follow through,” says Rekkles in the voice of a broken man. Tim doesn’t respond at first, caught up in tying the finishing knot and tucking in the loose ends, but Rekkles doesn’t care, he just continues on. “I’m so useless.”

 

“You’re not useless,” says Tim immediately. “You matter.”

“But how can that be if all I do is drag you all down?”

“You don’t drag us down. You’re the one keeping us afloat, aren’t you? Mr. Kai’sa carry,” teases Tim to no avail - Rekkles is stubborn, clinging to the  _ useless, useless, useless _ chant the way he stuck to the  _ stupid, stupid, stupid _ mantra.

Rekkles stays silent though his thoughts pick up volume and the whirlpool of emotions gathers speed, darkening with anger and self-hatred, and Tim thinks he can feel the shoulder of his jersey growing damp with tears.

 

“Do you know why you’re worth it?” Of course it’s a blind leap but he has to do something. 

 

_ Tim can see it in his mind’s eye - Rekkles has one foot in the black water and if Tim doesn’t act now, doesn’t distract his ADC as soon as possible, that one submerged foot will turn into two sinking feet and then two legs and a waist and a heaving chest and then a drowning, gasping mouth… _

_ Tim’s seen it before. It terrifies him. He can’t let it happen again. _

_ But he’s not surprised when the waves in Rekkles’s mind just splash in what feels like mirth, mocking him and his words, swirling up over what small part of Rekkles still shines with a faint glimmer of hope through the murky waters. _

 

“I’m not?” says Rekkles with a semi-playful smile on his face that hurts to see. At the very least, Tim is relieved to see that Rekkles can’t deny his self-worth with sincerity; even though he says he’s nothing, he says it as a question, he isn’t fully gone.

“You are,” says Tim with the softest, gentlest smile he can manage in return, leaning his head against Rekkles’s and speaking gently into his ear, “and here’s why. Because you never give up.” Tim has packed all his medical supplies back into the pouches on the kit they came from by now, and has let them fall into his lap in favour of taking Rekkles’s injured arm and lightly caressing it, holding Rekkles’s hand in both of his own. The ocean’s biting temper cools slightly at Tim’s touch.

“And you always put on a brave face for us, even if you don’t feel good.”

Rekkles doesn’t verbally respond, but he buries his face deeper in the crook of Tim’s neck and wraps his healthy arm around Tim’s back. Within him, the seas rise in the last vestiges of the storm, still battering Rekkles’s aching body but losing strength and credibility with every loving word that falls from Tim’s lips.

“You look out for us. You do your best to help us do our best. And you do more than that, too. You support us,” Tim says, reaching a hand up to run it through Rekkles’s hair, “and we couldn’t get by without you. You’re our Captain. We need you.”

 

Still he stays quiet, not saying a word, just hugging Tim closer and softly crying into Tim’s chest. It would seem that as the oceans calm - though they’re nowhere near peaceful yet - they slink away to drip from Rekkles’s eyes.

“And you know there are other people who need you too,” continues Tim, gently rocking them back and forth and petting Rekkles’s head. Rekkles is shaking with his soft sobs, quaking under the pressure of the seawater thoughts in his head that keep trying to tell him all the good things are lies, holding to Tim like a lifeline. “Like Upset. He looks up to you. And Perkz respects you, even if he doesn’t say it.”

 

“But I let them all down,” says Rekkles, “all the time. I disappoint people. I’m never good enough.” 

 

_ He’s still standing in the black-water shores. Tim’s still in his mind, can still see the stormclouds writhing on the horizon and the darkness lapping at Rekkles’s feet, now swelling up, empowered by Rekkles’s belief in the shadowy thoughts. Though Rekkles seems frozen on the desolate beach of his mind, Tim looks at the waves without fear. _

 

“Hey,” says Tim, pulling away ever so slightly to look Rekkles in the eye, “if people say you’re disappointing and they can’t tell you how to do it better, then they’re not worth your time. They’re not worth your happiness.” He carefully swipes the tears from Rekkles’s eyelashes and watches as Rekkles’s pretty green eyes soften and drop his gaze in favour of blinking more tears onto his lashes for Tim to dry away.

“But what if… I mean…” Rekkles lets his head fall back onto Tim’s shoulder, and his soft hair brushes up against Tim’s neck, making it hard for the mid-laner to focus - his neck is a bit sensitive to light touches, so he’s having to restrain his shudders, but he keeps his mind trained on Rekkles’s own. “I… I’m supposed to do what they want… am I not? I have to keep my fans happy…” 

 

Tim runs a hand along Rekkles’s back, slipping the other through his hair to reassure the ADC, saying, “No, no, no. You need to keep yourself happy!” At this point, Rekkles is basically sitting on Tim’s lap, still softly sniffling into Tim’s shirt, wrapped tightly around Tim’s torso, holding him close. A few more tears fall onto the rough fabric of Tim’s jersey. For a moment, Tim’s thoughts stray to worrying about Rekkles scratching his eyes, but then Rekkles speaks up and Tim’s attention snaps back to the man in his arms.

 

“H-how... how do I… nevermind. It’s a stupid question,” he sniffles. 

 

_ A sudden swell of the ocean hits them both, sending Tim staggering back though Rekkles seems to mentally lean into it, and Tim instantly grabs his hand. If Rekkles succumbs to the dark thoughts again, he’s not going alone. _

 

“No, it’s not. It’s never stupid. You can talk to me about anything, you know.”

Rekkles rubs his face on Tim’s shirt and the mid-laner winces in sympathy for the delicate skin around Rekkles’s eyes, but he makes sure to tune in. “I… How do I keep myself… happy? I don’t remember how…” He breaks into sobs again and it’s all Tim can do to keep himself from doing the same, but he has to stay strong for Rekkles; Tim staves off tears and instead hugs him closer, rocking them back and forth.

 

_ When he sobs, he falls to his knees in his mind, and Tim picks him up with some difficulty. Rekkles’s legs are wobbly, so Tim slings one arm across his own shoulders as he supports Rekkles with an arm around the waist. Rekkles’s face is as desolate of emotion as the beach is of life, but from his emerald eyes, thin streams of saltwater flow. They fall from his face and blacken in the air, hitting the water as dark as the rest.  _

_ The sea is a sea of tears. _

_ Tim begins to take wavering steps back from the tides, and the ADC by his side takes shaky steps as well, clinging to Tim’s neck. Once they’re far enough from the waterline that Tim feels confident the oceans won’t rise to attack Rekkles again, he lowers them to the ground, sitting on damp, rain-pocked sand and helping Rekkles to sit beside him, leaning on him much the way they are in the physical world. _

 

“Well, what do you like to do?” asks Tim, speaking into the room. His mind has mostly returned and he’s reassured of Rekkles’s safety now that the dark seas have retreated and Rekkles’s mind has left the desolate coastline, though there are still two phantoms holding each other and watching the water.

“Um… play League, I guess.”

Tim softly giggles. “I should have known you would say that.” He runs a hand over the back of Rekkles’s head, petting his hair, working fingers through until the hairgel is a little weaker, a little less stiff. “Hmm… How about right now? What do you want to do right now?”

 

“Uhm… uh… I, uh… can we- um. Can we… can we cuddle?” And sure, Tim is caught a little bit off-guard, but only by how quickly Rekkles was willing to say what he wanted. Tim was sure it would have taken a bit more cajoling to get Rekkles to admit he wanted to hold the mid-laner close.

“Of course,” he easily replies, and Rekkles immediately moves to lay them both down side-by-side on the bed, but Tim’s still wearing his horribly scratchy jersey and he really wants to change into something softer if Rekkles is going to keep drying his tears on Tim’s shirt. “Wait,” Tim says, sprawled out on the bed with Rekkles lying on top of him and resting his head on Tim’s chest. “I need to change my shirt.”

 

“Why?” Rekkles lifts his head to look at Tim, and his teary red eyes now show the signs of being rubbed on Tim’s jersey. Immediately, Tim’s hands and worries fly to the state of Rekkles’s eyes and the sunken circles around them.

“Ohhh, look at you,” Tim cooes sadly, speaking in the same tone that might be used by a mother when inspecting her child’s wounds. He cups Rekkles’s face in his hands to get a better view of the tiny marks around his eyes, and, for a brief second as Rekkles’s eyes dart shyly to the side, Tim thinks he feels the smooth skin beneath his hands heat and blush light red. Surely he’s just confused, though; after all, the lines between where his thoughts end and where Rekkles’s begin is more than a little blurry. “See, there are little scratches. This shirt is too rough. I need to get a softer one so you don’t hurt your eyes. Here,” says Tim, tapping Rekkles’s arm in a signal to let go, “I’ll be right back.” But Rekkles doesn’t let go.

 

“Wait!” he cries. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

“Rekkles…” murmurs Tim, gently running his fingers through Rekkles’s hair again, this time through the longer strands and letting the hair swirl around his fingers as he twirls a few locks around. “I don’t want you to scratch your eyes any more. They’re already all red.” Tim traces the affected areas with the pads of his thumbs, drying a few more tears from Rekkles’s lashes along the way. “I know you don’t want to be alone, but I’ll be back in just a few moments, and-”

 

In a rare display of acting without thinking about it, Rekkles blurts out, “You can wear one of mine!” and instantly blushes bright red.

 

“Uh… I mean… if- it- uhm…” continues Rekkles, stuttering uncharacteristically. He opens his mouth to apologise but this time Tim hears Rekkles’s mind say sorry before his mouth does, so Tim rests a shushing finger on Rekkles’s lips, and the surprised expression on Tim’s face melts into a warm, loving look.

“That’s perfect,” he says. “Which one should I wear?”

 

He follows his ADC as Rekkles rolls off of him and the bed, never letting his hand go, and then helps Tim to his feet, slinging both arms around Tim’s waist as soon as he stands, not wanting to lose touch of the mid-laner for even a second. Tim follows as Rekkles pulls him to the closet and lets go of him. Rekkles keeps a hand on Tim’s hip as he shuffles through shirts, internally monologuing,  _ No, no, not that one, no, that’s Mads’s, that one is mine, that’s… Fuck. _ An image of Caps flashes into Tim’s mind alongside a burst of anger and loneliness, but it disappears as soon as Rekkles casts that last shirt out of sight.  _ Oh, crap, it would probably be easier to look through the pyjamas rack, idiot, _ thinks Rekkles to himself, switching his focus to a row of shirts and loose bottoms that look well-worn. Tim runs a reassuring hand along the one on his hip and slides his other hand up to rest on Rekkles’s back, doing his best to chide Rekkles for being self-deprecating while also reminding the ADC that he’s here. Rekkles finds a suitable shirt, grey with a faded Fnatic decal, in seconds. He gives it to Tim, who takes off his sweatpants and jersey, leaving only his boxers on until he slides the oversized shirt over his head while Rekkles stays standing behind him, arms around his hips and head resting on Tim’s shoulder in the crook of his neck. Then Tim turns around and tugs lightly at the collar of Rekkles’s shirt.

 

“You probably shouldn’t wear your jersey to sleep, either,” he says, and he notices something about Rekkles’s mind.

 

It’s put up a facade. 

 

Rekkles is once again acting like there’s nothing wrong, like there aren’t still faint traces of tears on his face, like it’s totally normal to have eyes that are red from crying and a smile that’s more watery than iced coffee left outside for hours on a hot summer day.

“No?” asks Rekkles rhetorically, with a faint, sly little smirk that might have convinced someone else but, combined with the fear and anxiety whirlpooling in his brain, just makes Tim’s heart ache with how skilled Rekkles is at hiding his emotions - a skill that has to be trained, meaning that Rekkles has hidden himself for a while now. “Wh-why don’t you help me out of it, then?” He rubs Tim’s hips with his thumbs, caressing the slight curve of Tim’s waist and ass. But Tim can see him nervously chewing at his lips, can hear the thoughts of  _ fuck, please let this work, please don’t let him go, please keep him here _ , so instead of giving in to the blush that passes over his face, Tim just says no.

“Rekkles-”

“Martin.” 

_ What? _

“Call me Martin,” says Rekkles with that same faked seduction in his tone.

 

Tim rolls his eyes ever so slightly, but plays along, if for nothing other than the happiness flooding his system at being allowed to use real names. “ _ Martin _ , then,” he corrects, “put on sleep clothes and then we can cuddle if you still want to.” Tim speaks with a no-nonsense tone that, for the time being, has Rekkles -  _ Martin _ \- following his every word.

Martin pulls his shirt off and steps closer to the closet. After a precursory glance at his options, one hand still holding Tim close, mind repeating  _ what will make him stay? _ , Martin reaches for a tight black shirt that’s worn thin, and when he puts it on, Tim finds that it really doesn’t leave much to the imagination, instead stretching taut over the ADC’s well-defined chest and abs. The shirt is actually so form-fitting that Tim feels the need to run a hand along Martin’s bicep, tugging lightly at the fabric, to make sure it’s loose and soft enough to be comfortable.

He hums with satisfaction when the shirt meets his standards. “Okay, that’s good. Do you want to cuddle now?”

 

“Yes!” agrees Martin aggressively (desperately? with relief? The tone in his thoughts is inscrutable to Tim). He lets the facade crumble and leads Tim by the hips to the bed, lets him lay down first, then puts himself between Tim and the wall, hugging the mid-laner close and burying his face in Tim’s now-softer shirt, the rough seas in his mind soon calming, disruptive thoughts drowned to a mere whisper in the rhythm of Tim’s heartbeat echoing through Martin’s ears. 

After a few minutes, though, Martin second-guesses himself. 

 

_ A slow-building but rapidly-overwhelming wave of black, icy-cold water surges up with the storm that rolls in, drawing strength as Martin’s light dims, knocking Tim back as it crashes over Martin’s head and he shudders in Tim’s physical arms. _

 

Tim had been tracing patterns across Martin’s back - oceans of hearts and smiley faces - but they’re all interrupted when Martin gives in to his thoughts and shifts up. 

_ Oh, poor darling, don’t give in to the negativity… _

Martin rearranges them, pulls his own body up the bed until Tim’s head is resting on Martin’s chest, the exact opposite of how they were before, and Tim quirks an eyebrow even though he knows what happened.

 

_ So now you’re sniveling and begging your pretty little mid-laner for help? Idiot. How is this any different from last time, _ Martin had snarled to himself,  _ or the time before that? Face it, dumbass, no one likes them needy. _ Tim personally thinks that’s totally wrong, but he also knows that that’s the point - when you’re swamped with dark waves and stormclouds, all the things you say are completely wrong.  _ Maybe don’t be such a fucking pussy _ , he had continued,  _ be strong for once in your damn life _ . Then Martin had tensed, and shifted their positions to be the one holding Tim, the one who was meant to be “stronger”, the one who protected the other even though Martin is the one most in need of protection.

 

“Martin?” asks Tim timidly. He looks up with wide, innocent grey eyes, lifting a hand to stroke Martin’s cheek tenderly, but Martin is trembling again and has hidden his face in the crook of his own elbow. Tim thinks he can hear laboured breathing as Martin tries to keep away tears, faint sobs as Martin loses himself in the dark world of his thoughts once more.

_ You know, _ Martin nonchalantly continues, tearing himself apart without the ability to stop, the sea dragging him further and further from Tim on the shore and further and further into the whirlpool’s vortex as Tim dives forward, swimming through Martin’s thoughts,  _ maybe if you weren’t so fucking pitiful, Rasmus wouldn’t have left you _ .

 

Tim’s blood runs cold.

 

“That’s not true,” he says, grabbing Martin’s face even as Martin bursts into tears and turning it towards him, past caring if he sounds crazy or insane because he can read minds; if Martin is caught up on Caps then Tim has to do everything in his power to help his ADC move on. “That’s not true,” Tim says again, gazing into Martin’s eyes.

“But it is,” sobs Martin, clutching at Tim’s chest as though the slim mid-laner is a teddy bear. “It is. I’m the reason he left. I thought the team would be fine without him and I was wrong and now we’re the biggest failure in the LEC and it’s all my-”

“ _ Martin _ . Hush,” says Tim, pressing a finger to Martin’s lips again. “Stop blaming yourself for things that aren’t in your control.” Martin tries to protest but a gentle shush keeps him quiet. “You couldn’t have stopped Caps from leaving,” he says, caressing Martin’s cheek and swiping away teardrops with slow stroking thumbs, suppressing the urge to kiss Martin on the nose. “No one could have. And it’s definitely not your fault he left.” 

“But I could have,” Martin cries, “I could have talked to him. I- I- I could have been better for him. I could have been better in bed or nicer or paid more attention to him or worked out more or did what he wanted or been a better boyfriend or…” And he keeps on going and going, listing off all the ways his mind thinks he should have done better. Instead of stopping him, instead of pressing a finger to his lips again or maybe even kissing the handsome Swede -  _ that would be incredible _ , thinks Tim,  _ I bet he’s an amazing kisser. I mean, just look at him… Wait, don’t do that, pay attention! _ \- he lets Martin ramble. 

 

Why? Because with every poison-coated word that slips off Martin’s pretty lips, that’s one fewer shadow in Martin’s mind and one less wave dragging him under. The oceans are already roaring with pain and negativity; anything that Tim can do to alleviate the pressure is worth it, even if that action is just listening, stroking Martin’s cheek, and letting him spit the venom from his brain.

So his sad grey eyes stay fixed on Martin’s crying emerald ones, hands massaging Martin’s own, face still and reassuringly nonjudgmental. When Martin’s confession is complete, then Tim speaks.

 

“Was Caps the kind of person who let others stop him from doing what he wanted?”

Martin immediately jumps to Caps’s defense. “Of course not, he-”

“Then there you go,” says Tim. “Nothing would have stopped him. You couldn’t have done anything. It wasn’t your fault.”

 

“But… but… it’s always my fault,” replies Martin in a tiny, horribly confused voice that reaches to Tim’s heart and gives it a rough squeeze. “Everyone leaves-” he says before he’s cut off by a hiccup, choking on water, “-and it’s always me they’re leaving. Everyone leaves. xPeke, Reignover, Klaj, Caps…” And he pulls Tim close before sobbing into his chest the last names on his list. “...Mads… even you’re probably gonna leave, Tim.”

 

_ Tim has waded deep enough to grab Martin’s hand again, and tries unsuccessfully to pull him back to shore. It feels like the ADC’s feet are embedded in the silty seafloor, and, while Tim’s panicking, can’t tell how many more waves Martin will be able to weather, doesn’t know how long he has to return Martin to the beach, but he holds tight to the hand in his grip, and, as another wave crashes on their heads, Tim clings to Martin in the swirling sea. When the wave has passed, he swings himself between Martin and the vortex, tackling him back a few steps by brute impact. _

 

“Mads would never leave you.  _ I  _ would never leave you.”

“Liar.”

“No, it’s true,” insists Tim, leaning his head down to speak from directly next to Martin’s head on his chest.

“Liar. Mads already left me. He hates me now.” A fresh surge of tears cascades down Martin’s face alongside a waterfall of pain and loneliness pouring straight into Tim’s mind.

 

It’s a miracle the Slovenian mind-reader hasn’t burst into tears himself, yet.

 

_ He’s screaming into the storm, begging Martin to go back. But Martin is covering his face as more tears slip from his eyes, and Tim knows that it’s useless to yell because no one ever hears anyone else in their mind except for mind-readers, so Martin can’t hear anything but the wildly whipping winds. _

_ He screams anyway. _

 

“Besides,” continues Martin, “How the hell would you know? All Mads ever talks to you about is Miky, Miky, Miky.” Tim yells again, this time in frustration.  _ God, why?! Why do I have to make myself vulnerable to save him?! Why can’t we both be safe?! _ But Tim knows the answer, and it’s trust. He has to show Martin that he can be trusted, that he won’t leave, that he’ll stay even if the ADC goes under, that he’s willing to risk drowning to save Martin from the same fate. 

He has to confess his capabilities. He needs Martin to trust him. Keeping secrets won’t help.

 

“I… well…” Tim sighs. He’d just told Miky about it the other day, so why was it so hard now? He doesn’t know. It’s always hard. “I’m a mind-reader. That’s how I know,” he confesses. Martin looks taken aback.

Then he starts laughing. “Liar,” he says between heartless, dry laughs. “You’re a fucking liar. Just like the rest of them.”

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, you fucking are.” Martin’s eyes are just as teary, just as overflowing as they were mere seconds ago but now there’s an angry glint in his eyes that Tim knows he has to handle, and he has to handle it  _ now _ . 

 

_ The tempest winds are rising and dammit, Tim can’t take on a sea and a storm both at once. _

 

“How do I prove it, Martin?” Tim will do anything. He’s not a liar, he’s not just guessing that Broxah still loves Martin - he’s got the dreams to prove it and the forlorn feelings sensed over team dinner as well. The evidence is overwhelming. If Tim were a jealous man, he’d feel rejected by Broxah’s love for Martin, but somehow Tim knows that the jungler’s heart is more than large enough to hold both of them if… if it works out that way. And in any case, all the evidence in the world won’t help if Martin doesn’t believe in the way it’s gathered.

 

“Tell me three things no normal person would know.”

 

Tim hums and traces circles into Martin’s hips as he thinks of good bits of info. It’s a question he’s heard a couple times before, once when he told Juš and another when he confessed to Oskar, and they both refused to believe him until he came up with names he couldn’t have known and descriptions of places only they knew about. So Tim searches for something simple, unintrusive, yet secret, to say. “You consider Upset to be like your child. He’s baby-Rekkles.” Tim watches and waits, keeping a thread of his own mind entangled in Martin’s.

Martin clenches his jaw. “Casters said that.” But by the way the ADC in Tim’s arms is frozen, body tense, eyes conflicted and then squeezing shut, Tim knows he’s starting to believe, reacting almost as though he’s afraid of what happens when Tim proves himself. “Next.”

For the next one, Tim takes a step back mentally, deciding to look at Martin’s personal view of himself, which is something most people don’t disclose often, and in doing so he ends up seeing a fuller picture of what Martin’s body looks like. It’s… uh…  _ interesting _ for the mid-laner but he quickly wipes the memory away. That’s not what he’s here for. “You have tattoos of tally marks on your chest. There are nine,” says Tim, honing his attentions to focus on the tattoos. “You… oh…” 

 

_ Shit _ . 

Tim’s about to cry. His own mind is keyed in to that of Martin, and he can’t abandon the trail he’s on, there’s nowhere for him to run to safety from the overwhelming grief that blankets the tattoos and their memory. It hurts. It feels like a gash in his chest, a bloody open cut, like someone took a knife to him and needled it into the gaps between his ribs. The sadness, hopelessness, despair, loneliness…

“They stand for all the people who have left you. You’re afraid of making it ten.” There are more tears running down Martin’s face and the angry glint is gone, worn away by the tragedy of the markings and what truly lays behind them.

 

_ Nine battered gravestones lie on the coast, deep trenches dug before them but none are filled. In fact, they look like they’ve continually been excavated, remade after the sea and wind half-smoothed them over. He’s looking over Martin’s shoulder, taking it all in as he clutches Martin close, afraid of letting go, afraid of losing his grip and letting Martin be sucked in to the whirlpool. Each gravestone has a name, but he’s too far from shore to read the words. Tim wonders how he possibly could have missed such stark markers on the bare beach. _

 

“Tell me what I did,” commands Martin, never letting Tim catch his breath or calm his mind before pressing on to the next demand. It’s as though Martin is tearing off a bandage, slapped onto an oozing wound, that bonded to the blood and that still won’t let go, still clings tight, still will rend the flesh underneath it when it’s removed but it has to be torn away and washed clean after all this time. “Tell me where the idea for those tattoos came from.”

So Tim obediently sharpens his wit, despite the ache in his heart, narrows the field of his probe into Martin’s mind to home in on the gravestone gashes and tally-mark tattoos, and… “ _ Martin, _ no…,” breathes Tim, wrapping his arms tightly around the ADC, “please tell me you didn’t…  _ no _ …” Twin tears slip from his eyes. Martin just smiles sadly, streams of saltwater pouring from the green oceans of his eyes.

 

There’s a picture in both of their minds right now. It’s a vivid picture, one in bright colour. 

Well. 

One bright colour. 

In the picture stands a mirrored image of Martin’s teenaged body with soft, fluffy hair; watery, half-drowned eyes; slim, slender hands and bloody lines across Martin’s chest. The words “xPeke” and “Cyanide” are carved above Martin’s heart, with a block-letter sanguine X over top, and on the side, in the crook between ribs, there are two tally marks.

The first two.

 

Ordinarily Tim would stop, would retreat into the safety of his crystal wall, but there’s nowhere to hide for either of them. Martin is shaking. Tim thinks he’s doing the same.

 

“Who… who are they all?”

Martin laughs dryly again like there’s nothing left in him, and the ease with which he recites the names can mean nothing other than that these people haunt him still today. “xPeke and Cyanide,” he says, guiding one of Tim’s hands along the edge of his ribcage, running Tim’s fingers over the twin scars that feel knobbly and rough. Now, Tim’s no doctor, but he’s pretty sure cutting scars don’t feel so knotted. But Martin continues. “Deft. Reignover.” Tim’s hand is pulled farther up Martin’s sides into the next crook and set of scars. These feel slightly less gnarled, less twisted… less reopened? Maybe… maybe these just happened to heal better. 

“Yellowstar and Klaj, my supports,” says Martin almost in an introductory manner like he’s showing Tim off to his exes. Then he drags Tim’s hand to his other side. “Febiven and Caps.” These scars feel much thinner, more like the ones Tim saw along Martin’s arms. Something seems dreadfully wrong about the older slashes. “And Mads.” Broxah’s dedicated spot on Martin’s body is alone, without the accompaniment of another shallow cut, but Martin continues with a dark chuckle, “Look, there’s even room for you, too.”

 

If Tim were paying attention, he’d probably be angrily sobbing into the ADC’s scarred chest, but as it is, he’s more distracted by the state of Martin’s newest addition to his gory collection. Tim runs his fingers over it again, because it doesn’t feel like a scar. Yeah, there’s something there, but the skin doesn’t feel right. Through the skin-tight shirt Martin’s wearing, Tim presses lightly down, and Martin hisses for a brief moment before he muffles himself with the back of his hand.

 

When Tim lifts his hand away, his fingers are wet. He holds them up to the moonlight streaming in through the window, and whatever is on his fingers is dark and rusty-coloured. For a second he forgets what world he’s in, thinks that his hands are soaked in black water from Martin’s sea of tears, but then he remembers where he is, that there is no vicious, vengeful sea swallowing them up.

 

It’s blood.

 

Tim rolls out of Martin’s embrace, rolls out of the bed and walks to the desk where he’d set his medical supplies, but Martin’s panicking, crying “Tim, wait, no, please, I’m sorry, it wasn’t funny, I won’t say it again, please,” and jumping out of the bed, running to Tim only to freeze when Tim turns around, bandages in hand and a glower on his face.

 

“Lay on the bed and take off your shirt.”

And Martin does, watching semi-fearfully as Tim takes out another long roll of gauze and an entire package of antiseptic wipes. Tim looks back at Martin's chest. He needs a rough estimate of how much gauze he'll need, and if it's just the one cut it won't be all that much, but Tim's worried it's not just Mads's dedicated slash.

 

His fears are correct.

 

When Martin lays down, it lets Tim see the full expanse of his torso and-

_ Fuck. _

There are nine fresh cuts, Mads's and right reopened ones, and a combination of dried and wet blood covers nearly Martin's entire ribcage.

 

“Sit up,” says Tim, curt and terrifyingly business-like, and as soon as Martin follows his words he climbs into Martin’s lap, straddling the ADC, disinfectants in hand. He’s sitting far enough back that there’s nothing overtly sexual about their position, but he commands Martin again, “Arms around my neck,” and Martin confusedly obeys. Then Tim opens up one of the wipes, ready to clean the scabbed and dirty wounds when Martin jolts at the smell of hydrogen peroxide again and buries his face in Tim’s shoulder, cutting off the mid-laners sight of his task. “Martin,” chides Tim, losing his soft tone in the tension and fear he feels, “I can’t see what I’m doing when you’re like that.”

 

Martin whimpers.

 

“Can you move your head above mine?” suggests Tim, and Martin shudders, takes a steadying breath before readjusting so he’s instead breathing through Tim’s fluffy brown hair and focusing on the slight scent of vanilla rather than the harsh cleaning smell.

 

With the better view, it’s easy for Tim to clean up the nine cuts, starting with the oldest that are freshly reopened and ending with the new, washing the messy scabs away and pressing a gauze pad to a few troublesome wounds that trickle blood. He moves with stoic, surgical precision, so much so that Martin starts panicking, worrying, fearing that Tim will leave, but Tim’s single-mindedly focused on caring for the Swede and doesn’t notice. Once the gashes stop seeping, Tim wraps gauze around the entirety of Martin’s lower chest, covering all them up and tucking the ends in a neat manner.

 

“I’m sorry,” says Martin, softly sniffling as Tim pulls the tight black shirt over his head again, gently manoeuvring his arms through the sleeves and adjusting the shirt so it doesn’t press too hard on any of his cuts. At first, Tim doesn’t understand. He can sense that Martin’s worried, afraid of him but not him, something inside of him. Thankfully, Martin clarifies.

 

“You’re mad. I’m sorry,” he says again, then opens his mouth to apologise further, but Tim cuts him off.

“No, no, I’m not mad.” Tim cradles Martin’s head in his hands, petting Martin’s hair and caressing his cheek once more.

“Still, I must be such a bother. Let me make it up to you?” By the way Martin’s hands slip from around his neck to trace his curves again, Tim knows exactly what Martin means by making up for it. But that’s not exactly something Tim is super interested in right now, especially not with Martin’s unsteady mindset. 

 

_ He’s finally drawn Martin back to shore and as he finishes bandaging more wounds in the material world he tugs at Martin’s mind, lacing his fingers with the ADC’s and leading him to a wind-tumbled, sun-bleached towel half-buried in a sand dune. Tim sits first, and Martin sits beside him. He’s unsurprised when Martin slumps over to rest his head in Tim’s lap, and he lays an arm across Martin’s chest to keep him there. _

 

“You’re no bother, Martin,” says Tim easily, “but you can do something for me if you really like.” Martin’s mind is a conflicted place after hearing Tim’s answer. Part of Martin is eager to please and overjoyed at the prospect of just a second more with the mid-laner, but the other parts are worried, sad, angry - Martin doesn’t want the sole reasons for their connection to be hurt, comfort, and sex. But those aren’t Tim’s plans, either. 

 

“Get lunch with me tomorrow?” Tim asks.

Martin looks perplexed. “Okay, if that’s what you really want. Where?”

“Wherever you want. We can get whatever makes you happy.”

“But it’s supposed to be about you,” Martin answers. “It’s something for you.”

“Seeing you happy will make me happy,” Tim says, “so you have to pick!” He beams at Martin with that radiant sunshine smile and Martin’s face instantly heats up with a blush.

 

“O-oh… okay… um. Can I pick tomorrow?” asks Martin with a shy little upward curl of his pretty, pretty lips.

“Of course,” says Tim, drawing the ADC into a close embrace and carefully tracing circles in Martin’s back, trying to avoid playing with or tugging at the bandage. When Martin hugs him back, Tim’s hips slide forward on Martin’s thighs until he’s genuinely straddling Martin. It’s a little awkward, but Tim’s face heats in a faint blush as he realises that he definitely likes this.

 

He hears Martin say,  _ Well, this isn’t how I would have liked to end up in this position with the cutie _ , and before he can even stop to think about whether Martin said it or just thought it, Tim responds with a giggle.

“Yeah, me as well.”

 

By Martin’s semi-stunned silence, Tim knows Martin didn’t say it.

 

“Ah. Sorry. You didn’t…”

“No…” replies Martin. It’s an awkward silence but one that ends with Martin’s curiosity. “Are you reading my mind?”

“Not trying to, sorry. It just kind of… When I’m this close to someone, it’s really difficult not to.” Martin hums for him to continue, laying them both down on the bed as Tim does. “It’s kind of like… a radio?”

“A radio?”

“A speaker, I think. The closer you are, the louder your thoughts get. But there’s ways to stop that. They kind of… muffle? the sound.”

 

Martin hums again, this time in understanding, and his eyes, level with Tim’s on the bed, blink open with a kind of tired sadness. He’s not “fixed”, if being fixed is a thing, but Tim’s glad to see he’s improved. There’s no more manic sadness in him, but the dulled feeling beneath it all of a grey world and so little light and joy still remains. “So,” says Martin, “what can you… see? hear?”

 

“Well, at this close,” replies Tim, “if you think something you might as well say it.” Martin’s gorgeous green eyes gain a twinge of fear at that, understandably, but Tim knows he can’t keep secrets if he and his ADC are going to be sharing lunch dates and a mutual interest in Broxah. “And I can feel emotions, sort of. But nothing past that, not unless I’m actually trying to read you.” And despite the fear, Martin trusts him, wholly and without reservation.

 

“You were in my head before,” he says, and it’s a question but it’s not.

“I was. I… you… you were drowning.”

“I was,” says Martin with a tiny little laugh. Tim doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“I don’t- I won’t intrude,” he explains, “I would never do that unless I knew you needed me.”

And Martin, oh Martin, “I believe you,” he says, smiling so prettily with a sense of starshine and ease in his face.

 

_ The storm has passed. It isn’t blue skies in Martin’s mind, but it’s also not ominous masses of thunderclouds that are gathering on the horizon; instead they’re slowly dissipating and revealing a night sky so full of stars that it almost rivals the beauty whose head is in Tim’s lap. _

_ Almost. _

_ Tim can’t keep his hands from tracing Martin’s jaw and running lightly across his pretty features. The ADC’s face is relaxed with a hint of a soft smile, and, though his eyes are closed peacefully, Tim knows he’s not asleep. Instead, he’s thinking - no, not thinking, he’s taking pleasure in not thinking, just letting Tim’s touch soothe the clouds further and finding peace after the violence. _

 

When Martin confides acceptance, Tim’s face lights up again. It’s so rare to be trusted, to be believed, to be held close rather than pushed away by people who want to keep their secrets. Still, it’s a big jump to go from knowing your thoughts are hidden to knowing they really aren’t. 

“Thank you,” Tim says, “I’ll get you a necklace with a charm that muffles your thoughts. So you don’t need to worry about me reading your mind.” It’s a pretty common courtesy to bestow dampening crystals upon a mind-reader’s loved ones, if for nothing else than trust and equality in a relationship, and Tim’s thoughts immediately fly to a pretty, apple-green wulfenite bauble he’d seen in a jewelry store that would match Martin’s eyes perfectly. But Martin’s face sinks in the slightest. 

 

“Yeah,” he laughs softly, quietly, sadly, “probably don’t want to be hearing all my depressing thoughts all the time.”

“What? Martin, no,” says Tim fondly, rubbing hearts into Martin’s back, “that’s not it at all.” Martin makes a face, confused, questioning. “If you trust me, then I want to trust you too. The charm doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear you,” smiles Tim kindly, “it means I want you to have privacy if you want it.” He strokes Martin’s cheek.

 

“Oh.” Martin’s face colours in a touch of embarrassment, apologetic but only for distrusting the one who seems to put so much trust in him. “S-sorry, I misunderstood, I jumped to conclusions, I- sorry.” Martin tucks his head into Tim’s neck, a few more tears dropping lightly from the corners of his eyes, and Tim rubs his back.

“That’s okay, it happens.”

 

_ Martin’s eyes open under the starlight. They look back at Tim blankly; not in a bad way, but just tired out from the gale they weathered, and his green eyes shine with an emotion that’s warm and light. Tim doesn’t know how to explain it. It feels good. _

_ In his mind, Martin sits up, now fully aware of Tim with him, and hugs the mid-laner close, burying his face in Tim’s shoulder as Tim hugs him back. The new winds, the gentle, playful winds of a peaceable, affable ocean, ruffle his hair and kiss Martin’s cheek with salted lips. A few black tears stain Tim’s shirt, but that’s alright. _

 

They rest then, in a peaceful quiet that doesn’t disturb or threaten either of them, occupied as their minds are with the whooshing sounds of waves rising and falling like their shared breaths, and Tim runs his fingers through Martin’s hair over and over and over again.

 

After a long pause where Tim clutches Martin close, he finally asks. “Martin?”

“Y-yes?”

“Can I ask a question?”

“Of course. What is it-t?”

“Why do you already have a cut for Mads?”

 

Martin goes quiet. Tim can feel the shoulder of his shirt, the one he’s wearing that’s too big on him and smells of Martin’s bodywash, start to dampen with tears, and he amps up his efforts to soothe Martin tenfold. 

 

“Because to me, it feels like he’s already gone.” Just when Tim thinks Martin is all cried out, the poor ADC chokes on his own words, a garble of tears and emotions lodging in his throat. “It feels like he hates me.”

“He doesn’t,” insists Tim, “He loves you. He thinks of you all the time. When he looks at you, he worries for you. He loves you.” Martin’s crying again, but weakly, eyes simply brimming with tears and loosing them without the prior anger and desperation. “He does,” continues Tim, “he wants you back, he just…”

 

“He what?” asks Martin in a tiny whisper.

“He just doesn’t know how to help you…”

Martin breaks into quiet tears. “No one does. I’m not worth helping.”

“Martin,  _ no _ . You are worth helping. You are worth saving. You are worth loving.”

And Martin’s sobbing into Tim’s chest once more.

 

_ The moon finally makes an appearance in Martin’s mindscape, shining tranquility upon the mid-ADC twosome, illuminating Martin’s blonde hair and shining off the surface of the now-quietly swishing seas. In Martin’s mind, Tim holds him close, cradling his head against a slim shoulder, stroking Martin’s hair, pressing soft kisses to the tears as they dirty and darken, leaking clear from Martin’s crisp green eyes and falling black to the sand, leaving stains everywhere they touch. _

 

As Tim’s physical hands switch to running up and down Martin’s sides in an attempt to soothe and distract the ADC from all the bad thoughts plaguing his mind like a disease, the last of Martin’s weak sobs slowly peter out, though the volume of the tears pouring from his eyes stays at high levels.

 

When he quiets to a manageable sniffling, Martin says, “I’m sorry.” His eyes are red again and he’s buried his face into Tim’s chest, scrubbing away tears with his shirt on Tim’s slight frame, hands on the mid-laner’s ribcage held close.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me.”

 

And the words that fall from Tim’s lips in reply are nothing but the bare, stark, dangerous, scared truth. 

 

“I could never.” He holds Martin even closer, encompassing as much of the ADC’s body as physically possible within his arms, curling up to murmur loving words into Martin’s temple, broadcasting everything positive he’s ever felt for him - admiration, affection, adoration and a depth of emotions welling up like a mountain spring - straight into Martin’s mind.

 

“Please…” whispers Martin, softly quaking.

 

_ On the beach where two… lovers? Not yet… Friends, then. On the desolate beach where two friends lay, one with seawater-green eyes and another with raincloud-grey, there’s nothing but a vast expanse of drab sand and midnight waters under midnight skies. A drowsy breeze sweeps through the night, and Tim wonders what change this wind will bring. It threads through their hair. Then, it tumbles over itself, laughing, chiming with the sound of bells, and then- _

_ And then from a small shrub that blends green and grey blooms a flower, then two, then three, all waif-like and bent over, drop-shaped like floral tears, pink like Tim’s blushing cheeks as he picks a sprig of them with a dainty flick of his wrist and tucks the stem behind Martin’s ear. _

_ Now it is Martin’s turn to smile with the glory of the sun cresting victorious over dark clouds. He hugs Tim again, sharing the sugar-rush of sweet feelings between them, and Tim can’t help it; he’s so entranced by Martin, so intrigued and so enthralled. _

_ Tim leans in and presses a kiss to Martin’s cheek. They hold each other close as the calmed seas swish on. _

 

“I won’t, I promise. Even if we end up on different teams, I promise, if you need me I will never leave you.” And Tim means it, he really does. He would never fail to help someone, he would never fail to be there for someone who means so much to him, even if it’s only for the moment, even if he falls out of love a week later he would still be there for Martin.

 

"Thank you," breathes Martin, soothed.

 

But he still clings to Tim as though his life depends on it. 

 

Perhaps it does. 

 

\---

 

It takes Tim a while to fall asleep, long enough that he ends up sleeping in the next morning. He’s not terribly concerned or worried, isn’t staying up late with a purpose in mind but also isn’t annoyed at his sleeplessness; he’s just contemplative, letting everything he saw and heard and felt sink into his mind for a while, letting his mind process it all as long as he needs. So he lies awake, arms around Martin’s shaking, sleeping body.

 

Tim stays up so late that night and sleeps in so late next morning that, by the time he wakes up, Martin's spot next to him is empty, with only a dent in the pillow and faint traces of warmth to indicate he was ever there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE ABOUT SCHEDULE: im a touch busy this month and by a touch busy i mean my schedule is packed. as such, the next chapter will probably be out by the end of March. apologies for the delay.


	4. Love Won't Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One lunch date turns into two, turns into a pendant around Martin's neck and a blend of happy and sad days and nights. Martin isn't quite as over Caps as he really should be, but that's part of Tim's challenge, is it not?  
> And then a whole new challenge comes into play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title: Love Won’t Sleep, by Lostboycrow  
> TW: mention of cuts, mention of urges to self-harm.  
> notes: a fluffier chapter before we get deeper into broxah’s issues 0v0  
> dedicated to my little ghost king : * thanks for helping me out with modelling character positions!

Tim is cold.

 

When he wakes up still in Martin’s bed, with Martin’s sheets tucked around him, he’s shivering despite the thick duvet and fuzzy blanket underneath. He sits up, rubbing at his eyes sleepily, and notices finally why he’s feeling a bit chilly.

 

Martin’s not in the bed next to him.

 

But instead of getting annoyed or freaking out, Tim just keeps pawing at his face, almost too tired and drowsy to really care, and when Martin -  _ wait, should I call him Rekkles again? _ \- walks back in with a towel around his neck, sweatpants slung low on his hips, and hair dripping water in rivulets down his chest, over the smooth planes of his abs, trailing down to his-

 

_ Okay, it’s 9 in the morning, let’s not go there just yet _ , thinks Tim, quickly diverting his eyes before they wander any lower. He thinks he hears Rekkles chuckle in his mind, mumbling something along the lines of  _ he’s too adorable _ but Tim’s not quite coherent yet.

Suffice it to say that when Martin walks back in from showering, Tim is still just sitting on the bed.

 

“O-oh. Sorry,” he stutters out, blushing lightly and turning his head away. Though Tim can’t see Rekkles’s body anymore, he can hear and feel the broadcasts from his mind, and there’s a sudden wave of shame that crashes out from Rekkles’s mind. Tim almost opens his mouth to say something. 

 

_ Before he can speak, Rekkles, who is standing out on the beach, having slipped out of Tim’s embrace while they slept, lets go of the shame. He turns to the rolling tide that’s surging forward and lifts a trembling hand against it. It slinks down harmlessly around his toes. Tim marvels at Rekkles who has overpowered his fears, at least for now, with acceptance and something that’s not quite self-love but it’s close, close enough that Tim is so happy for his ADC. _

_ Rekkles turns then, still shaking but smiling so joyously, looks at Tim who smiles back at him, and his grin grows wider as he waves with excitement, prancing and whirling around with pure and uncontrolled happiness, then awkwardly getting a hold of himself and turning back to face the retreating sea. _

 

“It’s…” begins Rekkles, then trailing off to only think his words.  _ It’s okay. He doesn’t mind the scars. It’s okay _ , he thinks to himself, and he says aloud, “It’s fine. You… you can turn around. If you want. You don’t have to, though- I mean- it’s not like- well, I know it’s not, like, a good view or anything ‘cuz the scars kinda mess it all up but I think the tattoos kind of help, but if you don’t want to look I mean you don’t have t-”

“ _ Martin _ ,” says Tim fondly, cutting off Martin’s rambling. He’s already turned to face Martin again, deciding that if they’re close enough for Martin to voice his insecurities then they’re definitely on a first-name basis. “It’s okay. You look good,” continues Tim, watching as Martin’s sloshing-ocean-green eyes slowly lose their anxious look. “Nothing about you is ugly or bad or messes it up. I… I like the way you look.” Tim beams as they both blush pink, Martin looking at him like he’s hung every last shining star and galaxy from the velvet-black of the night skies in Martin’s mindscape.

 

“Thank you,” says Martin shyly, lifting one hand to awkwardly toy with the hem of the towel around his neck. Then, as his attention slips from Tim’s face to his own arms and the thin lines that slice through the tattoos with lines of dull red, his expression goes almost vacant, eyes filling with brooding clouds.

 

“Martin? Are you alright?”

Slowly the clouds break under the light of Tim’s sunshiny countenance, and Martin blinks. “What? Oh. Of course. I’m fine!”

 

Tim gives Martin a look, one of those side-eyed glances that drips disbelief but their bond has to be built on trust, so Tim backs off and trusts in Martin to speak his mind. “All right.” He swings his legs off the side of the bed, sitting up, and scans the room. “Oh, did you move the first-aid kit?”

“Um. Y-yeah,” says Martin, “sorry, I put it back in your room. Didn’t want you to forget it.”

“That’s alright.” Tim stretches, cat-like, curling his back and cracking his neck, then stands up and runs a hand through his absurdly floofy hair. “I’m gonna go get it,” he says. “I need to rebandage your arm. And chest.”

“What?” Confusion washes over Martin’s face as he quirks an eyebrow at Tim, an odd murk of discomfort and uncertainty in him. “Why? It didn’t hurt  _ that _ much in the shower. It should be fine by now,” he protests. “Besides, you shouldn’t waste stuff on me.” He gnaws at his lip nervously. “What if you need bandages later?”

 

And Tim sighs. “Martin, your health is worth a lot more than the 15€ it costs to buy more bandages. And anyway, I’ll just buy more today.” He blinks up at Martin, doe-eyed, and watches as the expression of the nervous man in front of him melts into a weaker and weaker protest.

“But-”

“And if you try to tell me you’re not worth it, I’m going to start buying you gifts.” Tim smiles as Martin blushes redder, pouting ever so slightly with those pretty, pretty lips, but at least Martin stops arguing and accepts the treatment.

“Fiiiiiiiiiine,” he grumbles.

 

Tim stands up and is about to leave, hugging the ADC goodbye for a minute, when Martin cuts him off with a burst of rapid words.

“DoyouhavealongsleevedshirtIcouldborrow?”

Tim tilts his head sweetly as he tries to comprehend what he’s just been asked. “Could you say that again, Martin?” But the ADC hides his face in his hands. It would be adorable if it weren’t mildly worrying to Tim.

 

“Sorry,” says Martin, taking a steadying breath.

“That’s okay, just say it again a bit slower for me.”

“I just…” Martin runs his thumbs along his wrists, as though he’s pulling the sleeves of a shirt further down his arms, and his nervous gaze flits about the room as he asks, “Do you have a long-sleeved shirt I could borrow? I, um. All my long-sleeved shirts are at my flat, and I don’t want the- the others to see… you know.” Having realised his state of undress, Martin instead pulls the towel back and forth across his nape, tugging at the ends, first one and then the other. 

“Oh! Yeah, I’ve got some.” Tim takes Martin’s hand, leading him to the door, but before they leave, he turns and takes the towel off Martin’s shoulders, wrapping it snugly around Martin and tucking in the end so it stays, concealing his upper body and arms. Quietly, Martin says his thanks, and Tim leads them out of Martin’s room.

 

Their doors aren’t that far apart, yet somehow on the way, the two of them still manage to cross paths with Broxah, who looks at Tim and Martin with an envious glint in his eyes and a sad ache in his mind. “Good morning, Tim,” he says, and Tim responds politely. Martin just walks faster, looking at the wall, putting Tim between him and Broxah.

Tim is perplexed, to say the least; there’s no real reason that he can see for Broxah’s seemingly out-of-nowhere jealousy - after all, while he  _ is  _ holding Martin’s hand, their fingers aren’t romantically intertwined, and instead, his hand is circled around Martin’s wrist. The anxious fear emanating from the boy on his other side makes more sense since Martin’s afraid of letting Broxah down or having the jungler leave, but Broxah’s emotions have no basis that Tim can see thus far.

But the door to Tim’s room opens under his mindless hands, and when Martin hesitates at the threshold, Tim tugs him into the minimally-decorated room.

 

“Sit on the bed,” he says, and Martin obeys timidly. While Martin makes himself as small as he can, Tim picks up the kit, some more bandages, and this time, a small bottle of healing ointment to help the thin lines and deep gashes mend well. He sits down next to Martin and reassuringly knocks their knees together. Then, Tim reaches for Martin’s arm, gently turning it for a better angle, and begins to apply the antiseptic ointment, leaning his head towards Martin’s so the ADC can do what he needs to in order to avoid the hospital-like scent. Martin rests his head on Tim’s, lying cheek to cheek. His faintly-damp hair smells like raindrops and mint, and Tim finds himself leaning closer to Martin as he wraps gauze around the length of Martin’s forearm. 

Soon enough the wound is protected from infection, and Tim sets forth for the next issue to tackle. He snips around triple the length of gauze for Martin’s chest, and then moves into position - but stops as he second-guesses his intentions to sit in Martin’s lap again. Instead, Tim tries to arrange himself and the ADC so their side-by-side spots will work. It’s rather difficult.

After a few fumbles of the bandage, Martin softly smiles, broadcasting sweet thoughts that make Tim blush almost unnoticeably, and he lifts Tim into his lap tenderly, wrapping his arms around Tim’s neck in almost the exact same position they had been in the night before.

The bandaging then becomes infinitely easier, and Tim, after daintily massaging ointment into the cuts, finishes up quickly.

 

He’s so absorbed in his work that he doesn’t even notice the ghosting of lips along his hairline, and Martin smiles softly again at the lack of a reaction from his whole-hearted, fully-focused, in-the-zone mid-laner who purses his lips ever so slightly.

 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

 

And Tim tucks in the loose ends again, and slides down from Martin’s lap to step over to his closet, snatching up Martin’s wrist and pulling him with. He shuffles through hoodies and t-shirts and finds the biggest, most oversized hoodies he has, the kind that fill Broxah with a rush of warmth and Martin with happy contentment when they see him wearing those hoodies. Tim holds up the largest two against Martin’s body to see if they will fit, and lo and behold, they’ve found a pair that look about right.

 

The first one Martin tries on is a bit too short in the arms, shows a bit too much wrist for him to be comfortable wearing it in public what with the pure white bandages serving to not only protect his wounds but highlight their presence.

 

When he sees that it’s a tad too small, Tim just shrugs his shoulders and reaches for the next one to hand over, but Martin, as he always does, fixates on the small insecure details of himself.

“Oh, this one just looks dumb on me,” says Martin, apologising profusely while Tim traces circles in his shoulders to soothe and stop the self-hate. “Sorry, this was a dumb idea, I look stupid, I’ll just wear my jacket or something, I’m so s-”

“No, you don’t,” warns Tim. “That one is a bit small but it’s cute. I like it on you, but you need a bigger one right now.” His index finger is pressed to Martin’s lips, keeping the ADC from blathering on about how awful he is. “Try this one.” He pushes another clothing item into Martin’s hands, and continues, “And for the record, I like how you look and who you are.”

Martin’s face turns bright red and he freezes up. Maybe he’s short-circuited?

Tim gently prods Martin back into action, and, after another quick apology, Martin puts the hoodie on.

It’s a black Fnatic hoodie, one that Tim had ordered a size too large for himself because he loves the feeling of oversized hoodies, and he loves that particular hoodie so much that it’s virtually steeped in his scent from how often he’s worn it. Perhaps it’s a bit smaller on Martin than it’s intended to be worn, but by no means is it tight, instead looking quite comfortable if the glowing expression on Martin’s face is anything to go by.

 

“You’re pretty, Martin,” says Tim whole-heartedly, and Martin blushes again.

“You know… you don’t have to say stuff like that all the time,” mumbles Martin, a faint tint of red still colouring his face. “I’m not some attention-whore, I’ll be okay. You don’t need to lie to compliment me or anything.”

Tim playfully nudges Martin’s hip as he responds, “Hey, who said I was lying?”

“W-well, even if you’re not,” says Martin, eyes persistently dodging away from Tim’s own, “You don’t need to compliment me all the time. I’ll be fine.”

 

“Okay, but what if I like complimenting you?”

Martin faces him with a look and aura of confusion. “Why? It’s not like you get anything out of it.”

“But I like how you smile when I compliment you,” Tim says, absolutely oozing pure emotions and fluffiness. He knows he’s going a bit over-the-top, but the ADC gives him the sense that there hasn’t been a whole lot of wholesomeness in Martin’s life, so Tim thinks that Martin is definitely entitled to a few simple words that make him blush and Tim’s more than happy to be the giver of said compliments. “You look all happy and beautiful,” he continues, and Martin’s bright red, now.

“Tiiiiiiim,” he whines, embarrassed.

“Martiiiiiiiiiiin,” responds Tim with a soft little smile on his face. But he lets the topic drop, at least for the time being. “At least this will keep you warm; we’re probably going to walk to lunch if it’s not too far away,” he says, and Martin’s mind choruses,  _ oh yeah! We have a lunch date with the cutie! _ excitedly as it’s now Tim’s turn to blush.

 

“When do you want to go for lunch, by the way?” asks Martin with the cutest of head-tilts.

Tim hums, half-thoughtful, half-nonchalant. “Whenever one of us gets hungry, I guess. I’ll be playing soloQ most of the morning, so just interrupt me whenever you want to go.”

“Okay!” Martin’s smile is bright, bright enough to light up a room or maybe even the entire gaming house, what with his happiness combined with a victorious weekend. “I’ll leave you alone, then, so you can get dressed and stuff.” He walks to the door, the most light-hearted Tim has seen him in a while, when suddenly Tim remembers.

 

“Martin, wait!”

Martin turns around with an adorable look of surprise on his face. “Yes?”

“If that ever… you ever feel like… you’re going to do…  _ that _ . again. Promise me that you’ll come tell me?”

And Martin smiles softly once more. “Yes,” he says, the morning after that gruelling night, “I promise.”

 

He leaves the room with a soft smile decorating his pretty face, and Tim watches him leave with equal joy, turning to his closet again after Martin closes the door behind him. As Tim gets dressed, he finally realises why Broxah reacted the way he did.

 

He is still wearing what is clearly Martin’s shirt.

 

_ Well, shit. _

 

\---

 

Tim breezes through his morning routine, quick as always, and darts over to the office for some soloQ before their scrim block that day, against... Excel? Splyce? He can’t really remember. It’s not that consequential, so he plays his soloQ comfortably, chitchatting with Hyli in the few moments he wants to talk to someone and occasionally leaning over to Martin’s shoulder for a glance at what the ADC is up to. On Tim’s other side, Broxah sneaks obvious glances at the two of them.

 

There’s something curious going on in Broxah’s mind, but Tim can’t quite tell what it is that the jungler’s thinking about, only noticing that an odd air of vacancy or hollowness, a deep and unusual silence, seems to take the jungler’s place in Tim’s mind. He can’t deny that it’s rather boring without Broxah’s electropop thumping second-hand through his head. When it gets bad enough that the tranquillity bothers Tim, he picks out a playlist to listen to as he soloQs, a nice soothing medley of Billie Eilish and EDEN that has always provided him with the perfect blend of heartfelt lyrics and gentle beats.

 

He finishes his first game and is partway through the second when there’s a peculiar pressure on the back of his chair. As he sends Kassadin to walk to the last top turret after helping his team take the Nashor, Tim spares a glance up to see who leans over him, and his eyes are met with shining green ones and a serene face.

“Hello Martin,” he says, returning his gaze to his screen.

“Hi.”

“Are you hungry yet?”

“Yeah,” says Martin, craning his head down to rest his chin lightly atop the band of Tim’s headset, “Can we go after your game is done?”

“Sure,” replies Tim. “Do you know where you want to go?”

 

Tim is not surprised to hear that Martin is undecided as of yet, so, when his team runs it down as seems to be inevitable in soloQ, they ask Hyli and Bwipo for recommendations on food. It turns out that Martin hasn’t tried real, genuine kebab yet, to which Bwipo reacts with a cry of outrage. Hyli immediately grabs a pen and pad to write out an address.

Once Tim’s finished watching his team int as he farms for late, he closes out the game with ease, locks his computer, grabs his coat and wallet and takes Martin’s hand gently by the wrist. 

Bwipo teases them as they walk out the door. Hyli hits him. 

 

Broxah’s expression, on the other hand, is just as blank as it was when Tim was sitting next to the jungler. Perhaps there is even a touch of sorrow and envy sprinkled among the vacant look on Broxah’s face. But before Tim can think too hard about it, Martin is smiling at him with a nervous quaver to the light in his eyes, and they head off to the address Hyli gave them.

 

The place Tim and Martin are headed to turns out to be a cute little hole-in-the-wall grill owned by a kind Turkish family whose son’s eyes sparkle with mirth as Tim and Martin struggle through ordering in German. Together they manage to request what they want, and sit in a corner table.

As they eat their food, Martin finding it quite to his liking, Tim asks little questions about what Martin has been up to in the two or three hours they’ve been apart, and, with a little coaxing, he soon has Martin cheerfully telling him all about the insane Janna support he had in his first game, who played lane so wonderfully and then ran it down during mid-game, and the game he played with G2’s Wunder as Karma top. It’s a far cry from the fearful man Tim had shared a bed with last night, and he’s so glad to see Martin grinning and joking.

 

In fact, everything about this sweet lunch date makes Tim happy, so overwhelmingly happy that he finds his guardedness slipping away with every tiny giggle Martin lets loose, and soon Tim can’t help but allow his mental walls to crumble away, leaving nothing between his mind and the whole wide world of Berlin but the small shard of crystal around his neck. Surprisingly, there’s not all that much noise. Tim almost takes a second to think about it but already Martin is telling him more about himself, smiling with eyes that shine like dewy mint leaves, and Tim is drawn in by everything about the ADC.

Martin’s lips curve up in a cute little smile, and he holds a hand over his mouth as he chews. His gaze darts around nervously, moving from Tim’s face to shyly glance at the wall behind Tim and then back again to the mid-laner’s face. He softly giggles every time he mentions something funny from chat, or how Hyli was teasing him, or the video he saw a few days ago. 

 

When they’re done eating and on their way out, Tim finally notices the reason for the mental silence in the restaurant. There is a crystal collection displayed on the wall at the door. It has one of every single common dampening crystal, and Tim looks back at the boy behind the counter. Their eyes light up in recognition -  _ You are like me. _ \- and Tim waves to him.

 

Then, Martin pulls Tim out the door, and they’re walking down the streets of Berlin once more.

 

Every once in a while as they stroll, Martin fidgets with the sleeves of the sweatshirt he’s wearing - Tim’s sweatshirt - and eventually, after a few turns and streets, he takes Tim’s hand by the wrist as they walk back to the office. It’s nothing major, really, just a simple reciprocation of Tim’s earlier actions, but it has a profound effect on both of them, and Tim can feel both their heartbeats quickening as they proceed, practically holding hands.

 

Tim thinks he might be in love.

 

\---

 

The next day, Martin rests his head on the back of Tim’s chair again, and as soon as Tim finishes bodying some fools with Zed, they head off to lunch, this time as a brief detour before the main attraction - getting Martin a dampening crystal so Tim won’t passively read his mind. A cheap bit of fast food is quickly scarfed down, and they walk towards the jeweller’s shop, fingertips interlaced.

 

The lighting within the store is grey, if grey lighting is a thing, and ribbons of refracted light bounce off of crystals on display to shimmer on the blue-grey walls, turning the small space into an elegant kaleidoscope of colour. A woman and a man stand behind a counter in the corner, voicelessly working in harmony. But Tim doesn’t pay much attention to them, too absorbed in Martin’s awestruck reaction as he marvels at the smooth planes and faceted edges of the crystals all around them.

 

“Can I help you?” the woman finally asks, startling Tim to attention. She is tall and willowy, skin a deep tan, hair cloud-grey, her voice peculiar and somehow glossy like polished agate in nature. It resonates oddly in Tim’s mind, but he brushes it off.

“Yes, thank you. We’re looking for the green wulfenite?”

“Of course,” she says, already moving before he even finishes his sentence, and as she shuffles materials around Tim hears a tumbler start up, rattling its load of small crystals around to wear away the rough edges and leave a smooth, shining stone. “I had set it aside for you.” That’s weird. Tim hadn’t mentioned anything to her when he’d stopped by a few weeks ago looking for wulfenite. She speaks, though, like they’ve spoken before, and she says “here,” interrupting his reverie by handing the crystal to Tim for closer inspection.

 

There are no faults in the apple-green gem other than a shining streak through the middle, a flaw that Tim thinks adds beauty despite a few structural points of failure, which he knows will be resolved anyway by the process that binds the gem onto a chain, so Tim looks more to Martin, who nods almost dreamily, like he can’t quite believe Tim is really being so considerate. Then Tim hands it back to the woman, confirming that he definitely does want this particular rock.

 

“Good. I’ll have it shaped for you right away.” She hands it with grace to the man standing next to her, who takes it and tumbles the already-round crystal into a perfectly smooth orb, shining green and nearly as beautiful as Martin’s eyes when they’re sparkling with happiness under the sun’s pure light. He then bores a hole through its middle and sands the edges until the pendant is smooth as a bubble of glass. Finally, the gem is strung onto a slim gold chain and the necklace into a jewellery-box, and Tim hands the package to Martin as he pays for the semi-precious gemstone. The woman shoots a glance at the man next to her, presumably her boyfriend, who then pulls out a tray lined with black velvet and slides it across the table to Tim.

 

He looks at it curiously. “What’s this?”

 

_ A place to set your necklaces, _ thinks the woman, and Tim realises why her voice had sounded so peculiar at first - it’s not her voice at all, but rather her broadcast thoughts, and she speaks infrequently, quietly, letting her mental strength bolster her physical voice.  _ I can’t imagine he’ll be wearing that to sleep. Too precious to him. He wouldn’t dare risk breaking it. And really, you shouldn’t do that, either; for one it’s dangerous to the leather and for two it’s dangerous to you - suffocation hazard and all. _ Tim dumbfoundedly takes the tray and a proffered paper bag to carry it in, then says his thanks and moves with Martin towards the door.

 

The woman keeps working, organising the counter with lithe fingers even as she thinks to Tim,  _ You are anything but alone, my fellow grey-thoughted mind-reader. _

 

_ Thank you for everything, _ thinks Tim to her in return, and he and Martin walk back to the gaming house, this time wholly hand in hand.

 

That night is the first that Martin sleeps in Tim’s bed for no other reason than a wish to. Tim opens his door to see Martin nervously fidgeting with the chain of his new necklace which matches him oh so perfectly, the gem to his eyes and the chain to his hair, and Tim welcomes him into the sheets with a tender smile. Many words of thanks are offered up to Tim, and a shy kiss on the cheek is given in exchange to Martin. 

Slowly they fall asleep together, arms and legs as entangled as the gold chain and leather string on the tray atop the bedside table.

 

\---

 

Martin doesn’t improve immediately after those few days, but Tim can clearly see him getting better. He teases Hyli again, he responds to Bwipo’s noisy chatter, and now when he misses a CS and the negativity threatens to crest over his head, he turns to take a glance at Tim.

 

It’s times like these when Tim absolutely loves reading minds, because everything in the world shows its softer side when it thinks no one is looking. Sometimes it’s a strict-looking businessman looking around nervously before leaning down to pet a stray cat, or even those times when the cheeriest, ditziest of people have solemn moments, questioning everything and sitting on park benches, watching the sky, thinking deeply in-between fluorescent moments with friends. Other times it’s as simple as Hyli’s phone ringing and a smile washing over the support’s face. Bwipo has his fair share of caring moments, too, where his girlfriend calls and they chatter happily on for hours.

 

Martin’s soft side just so happens to be right next to him, in the chair that his mid-laner sits in. Tim has tuned his mind even through the dampening crystals to keep on the lookout for Martin’s negativity, the dark waves that swirl up to overtake the ADC, and of course these tides continue to rise and fall, but now, as they rise, Martin looks over to Tim and a little burst of sunshine seeps through the clouds in Martin’s head. Even though Tim has never watched Martin in the act, he just knows that Martin’s lips pull themselves into a tiny smile when the sun reappears. There’s a soft huff of breath like a steadfast  _ hmmph _ or a tiny little sigh of happiness, a noise that shows its speaker is determined to improve, and a soft bloom of positivity from Martin before the brief moment is over and he returns to his soloQ game.

 

It never fails to make Tim feel warm and fuzzy and bubbly inside.

 

Of course, Martin’s improvement comes with relapses, and though their days are bright and sunshiny, there are inevitably some dark nights.

 

A few days later, Tim walks into his room late at night. There’s a quivering form on his bed.

“Martin?” he asks, sitting down next to the ADC, who is curled up with his knees to his chest and his head in his hands, breathing so quickly Tim is worried he’s hyperventilating.

“I kept my promise,” says Martin, voice shaky. “I kept it,” he says, as Tim softly breathes his name and wraps him up in a hug.

“Thank you.” Tim runs a hand through Martin’s hair, doing his best to soothe the Swede, rubbing circles in his back to slow his breathing and resting cheek on cheek to remind Martin that he’s there. “I’m glad you did. Thank you.” He notices that Martin has taken off his pendant and set it atop Tim’s desk - a signal to share headspace for a while - so Tim removes his own necklace, tosses it into the laundry hamper where it won’t be harmed, and forces his mental walls down to step into Martin’s mind again.

 

_ Martin is on the beach once more. It is storming. Martin is far, far from where Tim sits next to the pink flowers, perhaps even farther out than the edge of the shoddily-built pier that Tim doesn’t remember being there before, standing with bare feet in the water that is equally distant and yet draws away further and further so curiously. The tide keeps retreating, pulling back so far that Tim knows something is dreadfully wrong and lifts his eyes to the horizon; lo and behold his suspicions are correct.  _

_ There is a massive wave surging towards them. _

_ And Martin is shaking, staring at the wave as though helpless and bound to the spot. _

 

_ Immediately Tim jumps to his feet, running along the pier, sandy feet thumping out a rhythm on the new but crooked and rough-hewn boards, thanking everything holy when a lifebelt miraculously comes into sight and he grabs it, looking up just in time to see- _

_ The first wave rolls in. _

_ It crashes down upon Martin’s head, knocking him out of Tim’s sight for a horrible half-minute until Tim sees a blonde head throw itself above the black waters, gasping for air even as the oceans draw away and the next waves gather strength. Martin is flailing. Clearly, he can’t swim, at least not in the midst of panic and a mental storm, and Tim knows he has to act before the choppy seas overtake Martin again. _

_ Out of the corner of his eye, Tim notices a small sprig of a shrub, decorated by a few rosy flowers half-drowned by black water, float tumultuously by. _

_ Then he’s jumping in, one hand on the lifebelt, and swimming out to save Martin. _

 

“Tim, I- I-” stutters Martin, eyes unfocused and hands reaching to his forearms. The bandages Tim had been replacing for the past few days are gone, Martin’s cuts having healed sufficiently, but Tim knows the skin is still too thin to handle being scratched at. “W-where’s the razor?”

“Not here,” responds Tim curtly. He grabs Martin’s hands and pulls them away from his arms, holding them in Tim’s own with a surprisingly tight grip for someone whose arms are so twig-like in stature.

 

“A-a-a knife?” Martin asks. “Maybe?” He seems unsure, half-dazed, almost like he’s slipping back into that vacant space he’d been in when Tim had walked in on him, that first night of their trysts, and Tim’s words are hard as steel again.

“No.”

 

The poor thing, he’s shaking now, teeth chattering with every sound coming from his lips. 

 

“Anything sharp?” he begs. “Please, I-I, please-”

“No.”

“Tim, Tim, I need it,” whimpers Martin, “please, I- I have to, I need to-”

He’s fighting back hard, thrashing his whole body around in a vain attempt to release Tim’s hands from his own and run free to find something, anything, to alleviate the desperate need for release, but Tim’s fists are like a vice and tighten as Martin struggles. “No, Martin,” says Tim, not letting Martin’s hands go no matter how hard the ADC tries to free himself from Tim’s iron grip.

 

“But, Tim,” gasps Martin, caught in the throes of a powerful urge to return to his old ways. Tears are running down his face and his hands are clenching and unclenching around Tim’s palms, though he’s doing his best to not sink his nails into the backs of Tim’s hands. “It’s too much, it hurts too much, I need the razor,” Martin pleads.

“No, I’m not letting you hurt yourself!” says Tim forcefully.

“But Tim, that’s the only way to make it stop!” Martin is crying now, tears flowing down his face as he feebly swings his arms about, trying to shake Tim’s hold on him.

“No, it’s not!”

 

_ More waves are drawing closer and Tim reaches for Martin’s hands. Their fingertips graze each other before a current tugs Martin just out of reach, and Tim kicks himself forward, reaching out with everything he has. At last, their hands intertwine. Come hell or high water, Tim’s not letting go. _

 

“I’m not leaving you,” Tim says soothingly. “Just keep holding on. I’m not leaving you.”

He’s answered by a rush of breath as Martin begins to sob, dread swamping his mind and flowing out, letting Tim feel the tsunami of emotions that overtake the poor ADC when everything in his mind turns on him.

“Just squeeze my hand when it gets bad, okay?” Tim speaks directly into Martin’s ear, mumbling gentle words to distract him, and loosens his grip ever so slightly to stroke the backs of Martin’s hands with his thumbs as Martin latches onto him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” says Martin through gritted teeth, half leaning-in to Tim’s offer and half pulling-away, and Tim can see he’s fighting with everything in him to weather the storm.

“You won’t. Don’t worry about me,” he says, still tracing a curve into Martin’s hand.

 

_ With every wave that crashes over their heads, Martin resurfaces with a painful-sounding, half-drowned gasp. He’s clinging to Tim’s outstretched hands for dear life. The seas are still dark, and every cresting of the ocean makes Tim fear that this might be the time Martin loses his grip, but still their hands are tightly clasped around each other’s, and Tim’s other arm stays entangled with the lifebelt, keeping them both barely afloat. Each surge of the sea threatens them, but they hold fast to one another. _

_ Though Tim’s knuckles are white with the force of his grip and Martin is gasping for breath, at the storm’s conclusion, both are still treading water, hands interlocked, Martin clinging to Tim clinging to the lifebelt tied to the pier. _

 

_ Finally, the waves die alongside the stormy winds, and Tim draws Martin near to hold onto the lifebelt. With a few kicks of his scrawny though strong legs, Tim propels them to the shore. When their feet make contact with the seabed again, Martin almost collapses into Tim’s arms with exhaustion, and Tim supports him as they slowly walk past the nine graves, still deep trenches but edges smoothed even by these few days of steady winds. One patch of sand is curiously colourful, light pink and grey-green, and Tim picks up the twig, restoring it to its rightful place behind Martin’s ear. Though battered and wet, the flowers are still beautiful. _

_ They sit once more on a towel in the midst of a bed of twinflowers, Martin slumping over onto Tim, breathing heavily, head cushioned by Tim’s thighs, eyes fluttering open and shut as he heaves. Tim pets his head to help soothe Martin, and the ADC leans into his touch. _

 

Finally, Martin’s gasping sobs even out into soft breaths, like those of a crying child attempting to calm themself. Tim’s hands feel semi-crushed under Martin’s powerful grip, turning ever so slightly reddish, but he keeps Martin’s hands in his own even when the ADC shakily loosens his hold on Tim. The rough seas have calmed, for now, the waves of desperation and withdrawal having subsided. Tim lets Martin have a few minutes of gentle, unpressured silence to just breathe deeply and relax his tensed body.

 

“Are you sleepy?” he asks, when Martin’s breath smoothes itself into a steadier rise and fall and he’s no longer broadcasting such strong emotions of distress, mind quieter in the wake of the storm.

“Yes,” says Martin in a small voice, leaning on Tim physically much the same way he had mentally. Tim chuckles at Martin’s almost-childish way of speaking when he’s so tired and begins to rearrange them for sleep, laying Martin down and keeping himself between Martin and the door, the way Martin prefers it, to protect him from the outside world and catch every painful thought that threatens to overwhelm him. Before Tim stands, he quickly explains what he’s doing, then leaves Martin alone on the bed for a few whining seconds while he pulls a fluffy blanket from his closet. 

He bundles Martin up in the ethereally soft blanket, watching with lovestruck eyes as Martin cuddles first into the blanket with a relieved sigh and then snuggles up to Tim, even going so far as to tuck the ends of his blanket cocoon around Tim as well so they are both wrapped up in each other instead of Martin being alone in his bundle. A thankful kiss on Martin’s cheek wins Tim a smile as gorgeous as a sunrise over an ocean.

 

So, yes, Martin isn’t fully recovered, but to expect him to be would be rather unrealistic. Tim’s well aware that it can take some time to rebuild and soothe the seas once and for all, but he’s also willing to be there for Martin; after all, Martin has kept his promise, and Tim must now keep his.

 

As the moon lingers high in the sky, Tim looks up at it through his window and over Martin’s shoulder, admiring the view. Golden hair radiant in the moonlight, green eyes flickering open every so often to smile up at him, pink lips so pretty and petite, catlike features twisting up in a joyous smile to behold…

 

Tim would have stayed awake a thousand nights just to see Martin like this.

 

\---

 

Seeing Martin at peace and so pretty is a two-sided coin, at least for now. Each lovely smile is accompanied by a night of pain, each gorgeous sparkle in Martin’s eyes has a teardrop that must first fall, every loving gaze balanced out by a pleading mental cry for someone to save him from the storms.

 

Sometimes he comes into Tim’s room right as everyone goes to sleep and lays his necklace on the bedside table, letting Tim know that he needs help, that he’s come to keep his promise and let the mid-laner hold him until the violent thoughts run their course. 

 

Other times Martin creeps shyly into Tim’s room in the middle of the night.

 

He has grown used to taking off his dampening crystal before he sleeps and letting the larger one on his desk block out the rest of the world while still allowing him and Martin to share thoughts and emotions, so when Martin tiptoes into his room it’s not the audible noise so much as the mental noise that wakes him. 

Tim sits up in his bed and scrubs at his eyes. “Martin?”

The ADC doesn’t have his pendant on, already holding it in one hand, and Tim can sense the conflict radiating from his frequent bedmate.  _ Oh no, I don’t want to be a bother, _ thinks Martin,  _ but I did promise… but I don’t want to keep him up! Oh no he’s already awake… _ “H-hi. Um. Sorry,” begins Martin, but it is far too late for Tim to accept Martin’s incessant apologies.

“Don’t feel bad about it, beautiful,” says Tim, also too drowsy to stop the pet names from coming out. “What’s going on?”

 

“I just… um… nightmares,” explains Martin, closing the door behind him with a soft blush, Tim not fully realising at the moment why Martin is so bashful all of a sudden, and Martin curling up between Tim and the wall as always. He wraps his arms around Tim and nuzzles his head into the crook of Tim’s neck. The proximity lets all of Martin’s worries and thoughts and memories of his nightmares flood into Tim’s mind.

 

To put it lightly, there’s a hell of a lot of Caps.

 

There’s an image of Caps walking out of the door of the gaming house, and another of him leaving a place Tim doesn’t know, one of him laughing and an echoing wheeze that repeats so many times it starts to feel tormentingly empty. There are emotions of happiness and love and joy, sunshiny feelings like the ones Martin has when he and Tim go for lunch, and there are emotions of pain and heartbreak and rejection and betrayal, the kind that fill the ocean and surround the graves in Martin’s mind. There’s a thought of a kiss, lips pressed to lips innocently before amping up in fervour, and there’s a thought of a fight over the phone, the boy on the other end of the line infuriatingly impassive to Martin’s anger at him.

 

There are a few traces of lust. There’s much more hatred.

 

There’s a memory of a heated night spent skin on skin, perhaps not in Martin’s favourite positions but with someone he loves - sorry, loved, past tense - and pleasant, and a memory of a night spent drowning in sorrow, carving lines into his skin, bleeding out onto the sheets and shamefully bundling up the evidence in a trash bag. There’s a memory of sleeping together in a way that Tim and Martin’s relationship hasn’t progressed to yet, cuddling like they do but kissing too, and a memory of one last night spent warring against Broxah for a few more seconds with another tiny mid-laner whose hands are nimble and trophy-case far more decorated than Tim’s.

 

There is good, and there is bad. But Tim has to burrow deep to find the good, and the bad floats on the surface, soaking Martin in all the hurtful parts of his past and never letting him see the happier bits.

 

“Oh, Martin,” says Tim sorrowfully, hugging the Swede close with stick-thin arms, and then the waterworks begin.

“Please don’t leave,” cries Martin as he does so often, “I couldn’t bear to hate you too.” 

Tim presses his lips to Martin’s temple and lets him cry it all out. 

“I’m sorry if I ever did anything wrong. Please don’t go,” he sobs, “I’m sorry.” 

 

He repeats these words over and over again, apologising and begging even as Tim shushes him softly and kisses his cheek with an air of reassurance, until he cries himself into a fitful sleep.

 

Tim stays awake to ensure that he’s right there if Martin has another nightmare about Caps.

 

\---

 

He really should help Martin and Caps to resolve their conflicts directly, but Tim’s nightly administrations of love and affection seem to help the ADC well enough to the point that even the oceans start to return to a healthier colour and he and Martin are friendly during the day as well, teasing each other during scrims before Tim puts his gameface on. Occasionally they’re talking on-stage, too, though far less commonly.

 

But amidst all the happiness, there’s another dark storm brewing, a black void that snares its victims in silence, a danger that - with the crystal persistently kept around his neck and in his bedroom - Tim has no idea about.

 

It’s only late at night after forgetting his larger crystal at the office where he’d brought it for some mental peace during soloQ and taking his necklace off out of habit that Tim notices anything even slightly peculiar. It’s one of the rare nights that Martin takes to return to his flat rather than sleep with Tim -  _ not like that, goddammit _ \- so at first, the peace doesn’t raise any warning bells, but then…

 

_ Wait, where’s Broxah? _

 

There’s a wispy pastel orange smoke floating behind Tim’s eyelids, the characteristic colour of Broxah’s mental presence just like how Martin’s thoughts are verdant and chartreuse and Tim’s own thoughts are a rainy-day grey, but there’s not a drop of real thought anywhere in the cloud. Broxah’s mind is eerily devoid of activity, and immediately every last one of Tim’s protective instincts kicks into full throttle.

 

Even while sleeping, people are not quiet thinkers. Broxah, especially, has an active mind, one of the most active on the team, so for him to be so quiet - no, so deathly soundless - is terribly frightening.

 

Something is dreadfully wrong, and whatever it is forbodes another sleepless night for Tim.

 

He crawls out of bed, steps into the hallway, and knocks on Broxah’s door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> schedule: nonexistent :( sorry i've been so inconsistent in getting chapters out. no excuses this time, but i refuse to abandon this fic!
> 
> thanks for sticking with it.  
> :)


	5. Sleepsong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim has never seen anything like this. Sure, he's seen the sleepiness, the avoidance, the withdrawn personalities. But one whose silence is so extreme?
> 
> Tim prays he can stay calm as he navigates uncharted territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title: Sleepsong, by Bastille  
> notes: this chapter is much more closely tied to Sleepsong than other chapters have been tied to their namesake songs. if you can listen and read at the same time, [here](https://open.spotify.com/track/0D6EkCvMetAOPXTPmHW98Y?si=DnD_0qZFSoWAkQvlQGACSA) is the song on Spotify.  
> TW: thoughts that may be interpreted as suicidal

“Tim?”

 

As soon as Tim had rapped his knuckles upon Broxah’s door, tap-tap-tapping quietly in the dead air of the gaming house at night, the jungler’s mind returned to life. Broxah’s thoughts began humming again, ever so slightly. 

They sing as Broxah’ opens the door, but his thoughts sing drowsily, weakly, as though they’ve been nudged awake from some deep sleep, or as though from their deathbed they’ve arisen to walk again, but will soon return to the emptiness. At the very least, the presence of sound comforts Tim a bit. Still, it’s not a terribly strong reassurance, and Tim can sense the thoughts in Broxah’s mind fading by the second.

 

“Are you alright?” he asks, not parsing any words, unwilling to waste time that he may not have. Tim doesn’t  _ think  _ the jungler is going to do anything rash. It’s not like Broxah to behave recklessly, without care for himself or the people around him; it’s not like Broxah to entertain painful, self-deprecating thoughts. It’s also not like Broxah’s mind to go silent.

The jungler takes his time in responding, and Tim can’t quite tell the reason why. Is he unsure? Is his mind too empty to make sense of it all? 

 

“...Yeah,” says his jungler, finally, “Sorry… for waking you.” He blinks so often that it looks like he’s blinking back tears; he takes deep breaths, unnaturally exhausted-sounding sighs in between his phrases, and though nothing like the violent, flailing drowning of Martin’s thoughts Broxah seems to be suffocating all the same. “I’m alright.”

“Are you sure?” presses Tim, “You don’t seem alright.”

 

Sure enough, Broxah caves in, and lets Tim step through the door, though he stands by the threshold for a while, seemingly out of it.

Tim waves a hand in front of his face, drawing the jungler’s eyes to him. “Hello?” he giggles without a hint of malicious intent, “you look tired, Broxah,” and leads the zombie-like Dane to the bed with cautious, careful hands, wary of the jungler’s personal space. Broxah dazedly lets himself be pushed into laying down. Tim watches him owlishly as he moves with a look of confusion on his face, as though he’s not sure what’s happening or why or even if Tim is really real. There’s no crystal hung over Tim’s heart, so ordinarily all of Broxah’s thoughts would be radiating into Tim’s mind, letting him gain a solid grasp of the situation at hand, but instead there’s just an emanating murk of uncertainty and blurry vision, Broxah’s reality clearly either warped or otherwise smudged by some overwhelming force.

 

“Thank… you…” says Broxah, sounding pitifully perplexed as Tim tucks him in.

“It’s fine.”

 

Tim’s hand is entwined with the jungler’s, and he rubs his thumb in a motion that seems to bring the slightest bit of life back into Broxah’s mind, though everything is still so quiet that Tim can’t make it out. “What’s going on?” he asks Broxah.

“Nothing,” Broxah responds. “There’s…  _ nothing. _ It’s too quiet. There’s nothing.”

 

_ Ah, _ thinks Tim,  _ so that’s the problem. _ The pure silence of night and his mind is what scares Broxah the most. Logically, that aligns with Tim’s observations; the jungler is always singing or humming or thinking of some sort of noise to fill his brain and his environment, so it makes sense that the reason for all these unusual, disturbed, dissociative behaviours is a desperate hate of the silence. But Tim remains unsure. He’s never seen anything quite like this before.

 

By the peculiar circles under Broxah’s eyes, that vehement rejection of the quiet isn’t anything new to him.

 

“Oh.” Tim worries at his lip, trying to think of some way to help. “Do you want me to play some music or something?”

He sits on the edge of the bed and watches fondly as Broxah yawns and the painfully ringing silence in his mind mellows out the longer he listens to Tim speak. “No,” says Broxah. He begins to speak, moving his lips faintly, but no sound comes from his lips and he soon trails off. Tim thinks he faintly hears Broxah’s mind say,  _ can’t… sleep… own… _ but it slowly flickers away and shuts down that thought before it can continue.

“Okay,” Tim muses, “is there any way I can help?”

“Just keep talking,” sighs Broxah exhaustedly, and Tim’s heart goes out to the jungler, so he obliges, and talks for a while about little stories from soloQ, MAD Lions, his family, gemstones - whatever springs to mind, to be honest, just so he can keep prattling on to fill Broxah’s mind with at least something, since by now Broxah is nearly as silent as the room without Tim.

 

It’s kind of weird for Tim to talk so much. He’s not used to it. Usually he sits pretty quietly in a corner of the gaming house, tossing a few words between him and Hyli or responding to Bwipo’s attempts at chatting, talking with Martin about plans for lunch or explaining some of his ideas to Youngbuck.

_ Ah. I guess I do talk a lot. Not as much as with Oskar, Jorge, and Juŝ, but more than I used to, anyway. _

He babbles on for a while more. Sometimes Broxah makes little comment-like noises, soft  _ hmm _ s through his nose whenever Tim asks a question to make sure the jungler is coherent, tiny disgruntled huffs if Tim sounds annoyed by something in his past, little hisses of pain whenever the intensifying silence spikes.

 

Tim had never noticed how silence behaved before tonight. With first having a brother and then living in a gaming house, silence was hard to come by before moving in with FNC - whose gaming house is more like an office than a carefree dorm. But now, sitting in Broxah’s bed, the silence is tangible. It’s almost physically present, and in the gaps between his words, Tim can feel it like a suffocating blanket, ringing through his ears and sounding like sharp knives. It hurts.

More importantly, it hurts Broxah.

 

If the pure lack of background noise cuts through Tim’s brain like a knife, then it tears through Broxah’s mind with the power of a chainsaw. The sound of the silence screeches and rips at Broxah’s sanity, only soothed in the least by Tim’s hands kneading one of Broxah’s own, and Tim makes an unconscious, off-hand comment, lulled into a sense of security by the peace and domesticity of the situation.

 

“I never knew quiet could be so loud,” he says, and Broxah’s dim eyes alight with confusion.

He looks like he wants to ask a question, an aura of curiosity emanating faintly through his mind, but no thoughts form and or lips move, and Tim has never seen a situation quite like this, where someone’s mind is so woefully incapacitated by a dreadful, phobia-like fear. It’s like the jungler physically cannot speak. Tim locks eyes with Broxah, who looks up at him pitifully, brow furrowed in frustration, and then slumps into the sheets, giving up trying to communicate.

 

Tim tilts his head. “Did you want to tell me something?”

Broxah’s expression still looks pinched, but he squeezes Tim’s hand.

“Oh, that’s clever. Um… we can talk with taps?”

Broxah lets his fingers gently hit the back of Tim’s hand in a ripple of small thuds.

“Okay. Um…” He leans back against Broxah, thinking of a simple way to embody all the other things that aren’t yes-or-no, and finally happens upon it. “One for yes, two for no, three for… tell me more?”

 

_ Tap. _

“Okay.” Tim smiles softly into blank space, somehow made shyer by his jungler’s own shy tendencies in the silence.

_ Tap-tap-tap. _

“Oh, I guess I didn’t answer you, huh?”

_ Tap-tap. _ The Dane seems to be soothed by their primitive method of communication, which makes thought easier, limits a terrifying world of possibilities to a much simpler yes-no-continue decision, and Tim happily smiles ever so slightly when the glint of pain in Broxah’s eyes eases.

He giggles, even, at the jungler’s responses. “Are you being sassy with me?”

No response. 

He looks over to Broxah, whose eyes are deep and dark again and lips pursed, and the jungler just looks back at him confused with a feeling of frustration welling up within him. “Is that a maybe?” asks Tim, hoping to ensure Broxah can communicate as much as he wishes to.

_ Tap, _ agrees Broxah, and the depths clear ever so slightly.

Tim smiles again. “So I guess I should start explaining…” he begins, but he trails off quickly as doubts begin to fill his mind.  _ Will he be able to take the revelation? _ Tim isn’t sure, but with the way Broxah tugs at his hand to keep talking, he doesn’t have time to decide on his own. “Well. I can read minds,” he says, and weaves a tale of a Slovenian family that passes on psychic abilities to its children, where crystals are kept on walls and given as presents and which is certainly not alone in the world. Surprisingly, Broxah’s not terribly shocked, but perhaps he can’t quite reach an emotion of shock in his foggy, discombobulated mind.

 

Tim tells a story about a cousin, an aunt, someone from his grandmother’s past, folklore his grandfather told him, and small anecdotes about being a mind-reader, and Broxah’s fingers tap along his hand and wrist in peaceful “conversation.” He speaks about the crystal that often hangs around his neck. Broxah ever so slightly makes a face as his mind darkens a tad, but as Tim explains further - that it keeps the noise down, that it lets him feel like he is him and not everyone around him, that it’s almost a necessity for him rather than a simple trinket from Mihael and certainly no expression of affection from the boy with four rather possessive boyfriends - the shadow in Broxah’s mind lifts. Tim even goes into further detail about the crystals and the ways all the little rocks help him, slowly talking the edge off of Broxah’s thoughts. Of course, there’s only so much Tim can do. He’s helpless to stop the steadily-sharpening silence from usurping even his words in Broxah’s mind, even though he talks louder and in a more animated fashion. Then, as Broxah’s mind wobbles and teeters, almost falling deeper into the silence despite Tim’s best efforts, Tim moves to another story.

 

He begins to describe everything that he feels and hears and sees in the various places of his life, from the different colours of everyone’s thoughts to the ways little sounds of life, like music and self-narration, permeate his mind from all the ones around him. Broxah hums something in response. It’s the first sounds the jungler has truly made in what feels like an eternity, and Tim leans in close in the hopes of hearing Broxah repeat them for him.

 

“...”

“Could you say it again?” Tim nervously asks. “I’m sorry, I know it’s hard for you right now.”

 

The jungler’s eyes, which had been closed, now reopen sluggishly for Broxah to meet Tim’s gaze with an emptiness, and slowly, with great effort, Broxah rearranges the blankets Tim had tucked him into as Tim watches on, unsure of what to do without verbal, physical, or emotional cues. Soon enough Broxah has cleared a space on the bed and tugs at his hand. Tim scoots over, and Broxah slowly guides him into laying down facing him, head tucked lower than Broxah’s and lips close to the jungler’s ear. Broxah wraps a muscular arm around the tiny mid-laner and curls up around him.

 

From there, it’s all too easy for Tim to slip into Broxah’s mind. But when he gets there, he’s not quite sure where he is.

 

_ It looks like a box, with no features other than a plain padded floor and walls, all of which are white and almost dimensionless, and a drifting smoke that’s the same colour as Broxah’s thoughts. While Martin’s thoughts, however troublesome, were set on a Swedish beach, Broxah’s are adrift, unstable, everywhere and nowhere all at the same time. Surely this can’t be the jungler’s normal state of mind. _

 

_ As for the jungler himself, Broxah is sitting in a corner of the padded room, clutching his head and squeezing his knees to his chest, trembling as a collection of items dance around him as though there is no gravity to keep them from waltzing into his vision and filling his head with all the bad associations. There’s a smashed vase and wilted flowers - a twinflower and a sprig of forget-me-nots, all adrift in a cloud of daisy petals - alongside a necklace that looks exactly like the one resting on Tim’s desk at the moment. Tim reaches for the pendant, not thinking too much about it and more curious than anything, but as soon as his hand moves into Broxah’s sight and the jungler sees him lacing his fingers through the pendant’s familiar-yet-unfamiliar leather, Broxah lashes out and tears it from his hand, sending the crystal careening into the wall with a shower of blue-purple sparks. _

 

_ “NO!” screams Broxah, and the sound is both shocking and disturbing enough to make Tim turn sheet-pale. “No, no, nonononononono,” he heaves. _

 

This is insanity. People don’t talk in their minds, that’s just not something they  _ do, _ that’s not something Tim thought was even possible, because his  _ babica _ had told him that people who talk to him in their minds have lost a connection to the real world and are descending into madness, that he should never ever ever try to pull someone back if they fall that deep into their mind. 

 

Keyword -  _ should. _ When worst comes to worst, would Tim ever let a friend - a crush - fall?

 

_ “No, don’t move them, stop moving them, make them stop!” Broxah’s throwing his head about, he’s thrashing on the floor, and then, as suddenly as his fit began, it stops. _

_ Carefully, Tim leans close. _

_ “T-tim?” asks Broxah, his tantrum halted by Tim’s surprise appearance. _

Yes, it’s me, shhhhh, it’s going to be okay, _ Tim wants to say, but his lips move without making a sound, though Broxah does follow the commands in his soothing gestures and returns to sitting against the wall. Patient, steady hands lean him back and gently move Broxah’s own hands away from his face.  _

 

_ “No, no, no, you can’t be real, this can’t…” Broxah tries to hide himself again, the objects from his past circling anxiously into his vision like pets desperate for attention, tormenting their owner, and he groans a tortured, conflicted groan. “This… you can’t be real.” Suddenly, their roles are reversed, and Tim retakes Broxah’s hand.  _

Tap.

_ “B-but… But this can’t, you can’t-” _

Tap.

_ “But no one has come to save me here, no one ever has found me here…” Broxah has stopped rejecting Tim’s hands, allowing them to rest in his own without pulling away, letting Tim kneel next to him and against his bent-up knees and unfold him bit by bit, opening him up to talk and let go. _

Tap-tap-tap, _ Tim’s fingers ask, encouraging Broxah to continue. His hands gather Broxah’s into his lap as Tim’s touch ghosts along Broxah’s powerful arms. _

 

_ “I…” _

Tap-tap-tap.

_ “At first… at first I liked being here,” sighs Broxah deeply, “I always like coming here at first. It’s quiet… it’s better than facing reality… and then it’s too quiet.” Tim pets through Broxah’s short hair and draws the jungler’s head to rest against his chest. Perhaps his heartbeat still makes noise here, and could provide something to ease the silence? _

 

_ By Broxah’s breath of relief, it must be some sort of audible to him. Tim’s fingers reassuringly pat Broxah’s head,  _ tap-tap-tap.

_ “At first there’s enough to distract me. It’s better to be here. When it gets hard, at least.” A small part of Tim’s heart shatters in the same way the crystal would have, were it to have slammed against a solid wall rather than the cushioned one. _

Tap-tap-tap. 

_ “It’s better to be here alone than hurt people when I’m with them,” he says, dejectedly staring into nothingness, “better to just keep it to myself than put someone else in danger.”  _

 

_ Tim’s expression quirks in concern - there’s a rather fine line between protecting someone else for both parties’ good and protecting another at the expense of oneself, and it would appear that, for all of Broxah’s chivalry, he’s treading dangerously close to passing that line. Actually, the more Tim thinks about it, there’s no doubt. Broxah has long since decided to safeguard another and sacrifice himself. _

 

_ “I can’t put them in danger,” the jungler insists, “but…” _

Tap-tap-tap, _ Tim encourages. _

_ “It… I… Tim, can I tell you something?” _

Tap. _ Of course, Tim would say, if he could speak here, but alas, he cannot, and must make do with a simple and insistent yes. _

 

_ Broxah - or Mads now, Tim supposes, if they’re mutually on first-name basis - turns his head away and mumbles out a soft few words, so soft that Tim chases the Dane’s lips and still cannot hear a clear word. _

_ There’s no easy way to express “Say that again?” in their language of taps, so Tim settles for tilting his head adorably. _

_ “I…” This time, when the jungler speaks, Tim tucks his head in close to Mads’s, ensuring he can actually hear the words Mads confesses. “I’m scared.” _

 

_ A little part of Tim’s heart breaks further. _

 

_ “I don’t like the silence,” Mads explains, “it terrifies me. Please… don’t let me fall asleep on my own… not when I’m… stuck here.” _

Tap, _ promises Tim. _

_ “I just… I hate it here.” _

Curious, _ thinks Tim,  _ that he’s so conflicted over his mindspace.

_ “I hate being here, it’s so quiet. Even if I’m saving Martin by easing the pressure on him, I hate this place…” says Mads, blatantly willing to do anything if it means keeping Martin safe. “But…” _

 

Tap-tap-tap? _ inquires Tim as Mads falls silent. _

 

_ “But I hate the idea of waking up even more…” _

 

_ Oh no. _

 

_ “When I wake up everything will be back to the way it was,” sniffles Mads. “Martin won’t talk to me, he’ll talk to you. Martin won’t ask me to help him, he’ll ask you. Martin won’t help me, he’ll help you. And…” He trails off as a neatly-clipped twinflower woven alongside a chain of Marguerite daisies drifts into view, a dried-out vine of forget-me-not between them giving way to a red-budded plant that Tim doesn’t recognise in its unbloomed state. Tim plucks the interwoven vines from the air and curls them into a wreath that he sets around the jungler’s neck. Mads, however, refuses the adornment as it is, and takes it off to tug at the forget-me-not. It doesn’t budge, and Mads sighs. Instead, he pulls the daisy chain out of the braid. “And you’ll be happy with him, and he’ll be happy with you, and you’ll both be happy… without me,” says Mads as the daisies slip free. “And some part of me will be happy that you’re happy.” He runs a large but tender finger over a healthy, gorgeous blossom on the chain, then caresses a wilted, dead flower as he continues, “and some part of me will hate that you both left me.” _

 

_ Oh no, Mads is crying. _

 

_ He drops the vines, all of them, to the ground. _

_ “I don’t wanna wake up and face that. I don’t wanna wake up.” _

 

_ Tim is about to cry. Dammit, he’s kept it together so well, managed to make it through and help Martin without too many tears coming to his eyes, maintained a strong face despite pelting rain and pervasive silence, but now… _

 

He cries, and it’s the first time Tim has cried in a while. The utter hopelessness in the voice of a man who always has hope for them simply overwhelms the mid-laner, because Mads is always so strong, always looking up, always bright and cheery and optimistic. He must have been struggling with this for too long. Tim’s eyes are pushed open by tears, flowing too high to not look at poor Mads in front of him, whose eyes are like deep voids, endlessly empty wells of blue water without a hint of disturbance, eerily smooth and unreactive. Tim clutches Mads closer, placing a hand on the back of his neck and caressing his cheek.

 

There is no reaction.

 

Mads’s hands lie motionless on Tim’s lower back, his body limp enough that Tim is able to manipulate him but no movement of his is powered by himself, no indication lies on the surface that Broxah is even alive other than the breath that softly rushes across Tim’s teary cheeks. Deeper within his mind, though, Mads does react.

 

_ “Oh no, please, please don’t cry, I can’t comfort you from here!” _

_ Tim doesn’t think he’s crying in Mads’s mind, but as the jungler paws at Tim’s face and his fingers come away wet, he realises that this may not be under his control any more, and he looks confusedly at Mads while the jungler bemoans his state. _

_ “No, no, no, stop crying!” he wails, almost bursting into tears himself. Tim leans closer and doesn’t let himself be pushed away when Mads tries to curl up into a ball again, even though he can now feel the tears running down his cheeks and staining his shirt. _

_ It’s not his shirt. It’s Martin’s. Why is Tim wearing Martin’s shirt in Broxah’s mind? He didn’t go to sleep in it. _

_ Mads’s hands are on his face again. “No, why do you do this to me?! Why do you make me get back up?! Maybe I don’t WANT to get back up!” He stomps his feet on the ground petulantly as Tim grabs his hands away from his face once more and this time, he holds both hands tight as he responds with two firm squeezes. _

 

_ As soon as Mads’s fit arrives, it leaves, and the jungler sits staring blankly into space, hands light in Tim’s hands. _

 

Mads’s arms wrap tighter around Tim as he seemingly comes back to life, encompassing the tiny mid-laner in buff muscle, and he nuzzles down into Tim as his eyes close, a vague resemblance of peace, though the silence is anything but peaceful. His arms move jerkily to wipe away Tim’s tears. Tim breathes a stuttering sigh of semi-relief that at least the jungler has somewhat returned to him.

 

It’s not certain or solid or trustworthy yet, but Tim notices the return of Mads’s thoughts like soothing background music after too long spent without, like the breath of the wind through dead, stuffy air. And the jungler’s mental noise is like the wind in more ways than one - his thoughts are about as present as a breeze as well. 

 

_ They’re unstable and nonsensical, random flickers of pink, blue, and white flowers, with a few glimpses of jagged red petals that make Tim take note, for those petals seem all too akin to his own national flower, a curious development for how many different species of bloom permeate the jungler’s thoughts. The cheery EDM of the past is gone, though, and there is no humming to be heard. A few soft sniffles are the only sounds of Mads’s mind.  _

 

At the very least, Tim is glad to hear something, anything, though the absence of noise in the room threatens to push Mads back into the retreat of that padded room, a fate that Tim must fight on Mads’s behalf at all costs. To kill the sharp-edged nothingness that fills his ears, Tim hums.

 

_ “Buvikaj, buvikaj,” _ he sings off-tune, a lullaby he faintly remembers from childhood, nonsensical and rather silly but slow and soothing nonetheless even despite Tim’s questionable vocal skills. By the soft sigh, this one of relief, that Mads lets fall from his lips, and the way his stroking of Tim’s back becomes less mechanical and more human, more natural, Tim knows he has helped in at least some small way, and he lets his fingernails lightly scritch-scratch through Mads’s hair for an extra bit of variation to the sound as he continues to sing, humming gibberish at the times when he forgets the words. 

 

_ As he sings, the red petals multiply, forming an undeniable cloud of red carnations that Tim can’t ignore, but one that he must, for he has a job to do, and he may only ponder the repercussions after his song is done. _

 

Tim sings sweetly in Slovenian of a dear little child, fussy in a basket, being rocked slowly to sleep, and it almost reminds him of Mads, in a comical way - a precious boy, protective yet needing protection, perhaps a bit fussy in his own way and slowly, gently, soothingly being comforted into a state of peace, where he can let go of his burdens if only for a short time.

 

_ “...Do oči rosički,” _ concludes Tim, and Mads is asleep, however fitfully.

 

\---

 

Much to Tim’s surprise, he is the first of the two to wake the next morning. Logically, it makes sense; the poor jungler probably hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since this silent affliction came over him, but it’s still jarring for Tim, a notorious late sleeper, to be alert before Mads’s eyes even open.

 

He cracks open the window and hums a random, soft alt song to soothe the silence. It’s much less oppressive in the light of day, but Tim can still sense a sort of gloomy smoke lingering in Mads’s head, so he makes sure to continue his little ways of caring even though the sun has arisen. Gently, he smooths Mads’s hair and, after a few seconds of hesitation, he presses a chaste kiss to his bedmate’s cheek. Tim continues to hum for a long while until Mads begins to stir, and the catchy pop song in his throat gets caught.

 

Mads is screaming at himself in his head.

 

_ “Get up,” he demands. “Mads. MADS.” He snarls at himself with a greater ferocity than even Martin, a viciousness that doesn’t ask for sorrow or help from others but insteads circles in upon itself and destroys, pulling whatever heartstrings necessary to get what it wants. “You have to get up,” it says, and in Mads’s mind petals swirl into miniature maelstroms. They batter him with prickly plant matter as Tim watches on, watching carefully, preferring to get a broader perspective of what's happening since he's never seen anything like this before but scrutinising the storm for any serious violence that could arise. _

 

_ Into the petals drifts a weightless picture frame, then two, then three, four, five, some of dark wood and others mere paper. These items waltz back and forth, dipping and diving in front of Mads, putting on a show of faces and places and names. As Tim’s eyes stay fixed to him, one of the pictures flutters to the floor. It twitches and jerks like a malfunctioning drone or a wounded bird, and as Tim creeps closer to perhaps kick-start it into action again, he notices that it is completely void of an image, instead filled with a periwinkle blue like the colour of a forget-me-not. But when he cups his hands under it as though it is a delicate blossom, it ripples and shudders and recolours. _

 

_ It becomes a picture of himself and Martin smiling and joking as they talk about something, rose-tinted with affection from Mads’s viewpoint and both of them so much brighter, a fresh image in comparison to the dulled, scuffed-up photo that had been there just moments ago. The new picture sputters to life, moving - a living memory, Tim realises at last - and it regains its place among the rest of the photos around Mads. _

 

_ As Tim looks closer, all the photos reveal themselves to be memories, some clear and unadulterated, others with blobs of periwinkle covering a certain face , still others faded and blurred-out in areas, a few last photos with scratched-out spots as though parts of the image have been clawed at by human nails. They’re all moving into Mad’s line of sight as his disembodied voice narrates. “Get up, Mads. You have to get up.” A picture of himself on the Worlds stage skitters to the forefront. “For you?” queries the voice, and- _

 

Mads does not move. 

He does not wake for his own sake.

 

_ “It was worth a try,” it sighs. But it does not give in, this other-Broxah-voice, and presses on as pictures of the team, old and new, blurry pictures of the old and unlively pictures of the new, swirl to center stage. “For the team? You cannot sleep forever, you know. They need you,” it cajoles, and- _

 

A hitch in his breath, perhaps, but so quiet and small that even Tim, who is pressed close for optimal mind-reading strength, barely detects it.

 

_ “For Martin?” it asks, sliding an image of Martin to the front. It’s of Martin in all his glory, smiling so brightly with those beautiful bright eyes and the golden chain around his neck, so show-stoppingly stunning, perfectly-combed hair and lovable little grin, and Mads of his mind groans, clearly beginning to give in, much to Tim’s relief. _

 

Still he does not truly wake, but he heaves a sigh and stirs, moving his legs and stretching out in the last stages of sleep before wakefulness. Tim watches with bated breath to see if the jungler fully recovers.

 

He does not.

 

_ “Good. You’re doing so well,” says the voice. “Will you get out of bed?” it asks, then pleads, “Come on. Let’s get out of bed.” But Mads’s mind, having returned, washes over Tim with a flurry of exhaustion and the deep, unwavering urge to just sleep everything away, even though Mads is back enough to understand the waking world. “For Tim,” it says, and a picture of Tim moves to the foreground. It’s astonishingly flattering, a soft smile on Tim’s face and a little laugh in his eyes, coloured a deep, mysterious grey by the darker surroundings, hair fluffed neatly for once in his life and body perfectly positioned to show off slim hips and slender limbs. It is clear that Tim and Martin are aces up the sleeve in the battle of reawakening Mads, for at the mention of their names- _

 

Mads groans, eyelids fluttering and finally opening in the light of the sun and the faint sounds of Berlin from beyond their bedroom window. He sighs deeply, resting a distressed hand atop his head.

“Tim?”

 

Ah. Tim bats his eyelashes as though freshly-awoken, though he can tell he’s already been spotted out by how Mads’s face turns pink and he cautiously pulls away, unsure of their cuddling-close position in light of the fact that, well, poking through Mads’s recent memories, Tim finds almost nothing. He must not know how they got here.

 

“Good morning,” Tim replies, taking it slow.

“How did, um, what- what happened?” There it is, the verbal admission. A good sign, but also worrying for what it implies.

“You don’t remember?” asks Tim, careful to lead the jungler along bit by bit and piece by piece, so that there is no new confusion added to his mind if he ever falls in one of those states again.

“No,” responds the jungler. “It’s been… hazy, lately. If that makes sense.”

“It does,” says Tim, reassuringly making himself comfortable in the sheets in the hopes of luring Mads into a similar place of comfort for their discussion, and by the way Mads eases into him, it works.

“I… nothing seems real.” He rubs a hand against his neck awkwardly as a wave of shame and nervousness wash over him, and eventually Mads spits out the question he’d been wondering most about.

 

“Did I- d-did we, um, fuck?” he asks tentatively, shyly, so so sweetly.

Tim does his best to respond in the most soothing, gentle way he can. “No,” he says, “I just came to sleep here for a while. You didn’t seem like you were doing too good.”

“Yeah, I’ve been… it hasn’t been the best, lately…” Mads trails off into a quietness that doesn’t sting or slice like paper-cuts any more, not in the sunshine, but he continues after a few more minutes of deep thought, doing his best to dredge through whatever faint memories he has. “You- I think I remember now. You’re a mind-reader?” he asks, again so sweetly unsure.

“Yes.”

 

Tim is content to let the peace of birds twittering outside their window fill the room for a while, comforted as he is by the gentle noise that is natural and soothing to any soul, especially Mads’s frazzled one, but soon enough Mads is asking more questions.

 

Nervously, tiptoeing around the topic, Mads asks, “Did you hear, um, did you hear how… how I…”

“How you wake up?” says Tim, finishing the jungler’s sentence for him, seeing as he’s too nervous and antsy about it to come out and say it.

“Y-yeah,” Mads agrees.

“Yes, I did,” answers Tim truthfully. “And I’m here for you,” he says, and Mads breathes another sigh, this one of pure relief and perhaps more than just a hint of love, relaxing into Tim’s cautious touch.

 

“Thank you, Tim,” says Mads, and Tim rests a reassuring hand on Mads’s shoulder in comfort.

“You’re more than welcome, Mads.” Mads snuggles Tim for a hug at hearing the sound of his name coming from Tim’s lips, and a rosy aura of affection dominates the pink-orange smoke of Mads’s thoughts, crowding out anxiety and shame and nervousness and excitement with pure childlike joy and love.

 

\---

 

But Mads is not yet healed.

 

His pain is not like the waves of Martin’s oceans or the fury of Martin’s storms, not quick to come and go and overpoweringly concussive in their force, not a rise and fall that cycles through in the span of a night. Instead, Mads’s pain is long-lingering. It is the electronic screams of a silent house, persistently present and never dying, merely cloaked feebly by all the noises stacked atop. Mads’s can’t escape the drudge and heartache that permeate him so thoroughly in that more basal state, though he tries his hardest to simply brute-force his way through the underlying problem, and Tim, though he’s plotting rather quickly to try and help his wonderful, beautiful, precious, lovable charges, a plan takes time to both make and execute, much more than the one day he has before Mads is knocking at his door.

 

Bashfully the jungler slips into Tim’s room, asking if he could perhaps, just maybe be allowed to stay the night if that’s okay with Tim?

Naturally it’s okay; in fact it’s grand, and Tim lets Mads make himself comfortable, arranging Tim’s head ever so slightly under his jaw and massive arms hugging him close. Tim hums again, this time a pretty indie song that’s rather depressing. Without the words, though, it sounds soothingly happy enough to lull Mads into another fitful sleep, though at least it is sleep, and Tim had seen such drastic improvement in the jungler’s complexion from the night before to this night right now that he remains exceedingly hopeful that a few more nights of song and soothing snuggles will help Mads recover until the next bout of silence.

 

For the meantime, though, Tim can’t sleep.

 

_ Everything about the jungler’s state seems to conflict. There is silence echoing around him in that white, padded, brightly-lit room, and there is noise in his shouts of agony and encouragement. There are twin voices that somehow still both sound like his own - one who whimpers and wants nothing more than to be allowed to sleep forever, and another who fights and claws his way back tooth and nail for the team’s sake, for Martin’s sake, for Tim’s sake. _

_ It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.  _

_ As Tim holds Broxah close in their minds, letting his heartbeat ring out, he thinks for a long while over all the small things. Absentmindedly he notes the woven bundle of vines. _

_ The forget-me-not has withered further, now, even retreating its tendrils out of the half-suffocated Marguerite daisies and near-crushed twinflower blossoms, which now bloom more freely around the fourth stalk of flowers - clearly red carnations, it is undeniable at this point - which is slowly incorporating itself into the bundle, supporting its neat braiding where the forget-me-not has shrunken away. _

_ Peculiar. Most people have only one or two flowers in their heads. Most people have only their flower and their lover’s. _

 

Tim has so much else on his mind, though, that he can’t pay too much attention to the irregularity of flowers. He worries of Mads and Martin and him, worries of a relationship (because he couldn’t possibly choose between them), worries of whether or not it will work out, other thoughts of them all together, in more ways than one.

Before he gets too carried away with that rather attractive train of thought, though, Tim moves to the issue of crystals. Blue is rather rare in Slovenia, making his task substantially more difficult.

 

He stays up near all night scrolling through his phone, humming randomly as he looks at it over Mads’s shoulder while still holding the jungler close, finding no leads for blue wulfenite that is truly blue and few other Slovenian crystals that will work. Still, Tim persists. He wants to give Mads a present that isn’t thoughtless like a shard of his mother crystal, but rather meaningful and special, like the bauble Martin has, even if the hunt is a long one.

 

A few short naps and one sunrise later, Tim has found it - a piece of blue elbaite that matches Mads’s eyes so prettily. He makes a mental note to ask the jeweller, that watchful woman of silver, to cut and polish and string it for him, maybe into a teardrop or a prism on a light sterling chain, a gem pure and bright like the best parts of Mads, yet a necklace that, like Mads, will tarnish if left without love and attention.

 

Tim intends to take good care of both future necklace and future wearer as the night turns to day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will be cute and sweet and fluffy (at the end, at least), i promise! all the angst has been set up now ^_^


	6. Sleeping With a Friend (Or Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mads heals after a time, with Tim's help along the way. Now arises the issue of all three of them together - is it possible despite the bad memories of the past? No matter the answer, Tim is willing to try, though he may need some convincing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title: [Sleeping With a Friend](https://open.spotify.com/track/0K1KOCeJBj3lpDYxEX9qP2?si=n6Giv7JpRtGpUE41LT1_oA), by the Neon Trees  
> notes: fuck. it's been over a month.  
> in other news, this is actually the last bit of the original story arc, but there are more chapters (as you can see by the completion status) that help solve the last of the major issues and bring things full circle.

Another night passes, and Mads is still sleeping in Tim’s bed. With time, Tim doesn’t have to put nearly so much work into bringing Mads back from the brink, doesn’t need to push himself into Mads’s mind and soothe fits of frustration and desperation; instead, all that he needs to do is be there.

 

Sometimes Tim sinks into Mads’s arms and head, cuddled close by the strong jungler, and just looks at old memories that drift through the air in photo frames. Other times he simply sings a song as Mads wakes up, content to be there for Mads in whatever way is needed at the time.

Despite the variances, there are a few constant trends.

 

_ With each hour spent together, Mads’s placeless, undefined, adrift mind settles into place. Slowly, the pictures and items that once floated without even the slightest hint of being under control hover nearer and nearer to the floor. The light in the room changes from harsh white glinting through ever-thinning, orange-pink smoke, into a softer, gentler, more natural light that seems to seep through the cushioned walls at certain spots. A few seams in the cushions eventually melt thinner and thinner, flatter and flatter until it almost appears like wall and then from within the matting, hinges appear. _

_ A door. A way out of this place. _

_ Their third night together ends with happiness that could only come from the knowledge that this suffering will soon be resolved, at least for a time. _

 

And then, on the day following that night, Mads finds a mysterious white box on his bedside table - not that he’s used his own bed for several days. In fact, he’s used his room so sparsely that Tim wasn’t really sure if he’d find the box. Tim is only convinced when Mads slips into his bed for another night and is wearing the necklace, so prettily shining against his collarbones.

In the end, Tim had decided upon a teardrop-shaped style, smooth, but not sleek and shiny - rather, the pendant is matte-finish, rough and with a beautiful, soft look. The rock itself is the perfect shade of blue to match Mads’s eyes, and the silver chain is simple, enough that Mads doesn’t seem to feel uncomfortable with its pretence, but stunning in its cool grey simplicity and an excellent complement to Mads’s warm nature. All in all, it’s a good-looking piece of jewellery. It looks even better hanging over Mads’s bare chest when he takes his shirt off to show Tim how it looks on him.

 

After he shows it off, though, Mads unclips it and carefully spools the silver chain next to the leather string of Tim’s own pendant, and he crawls under the sheets to hold Tim close again.  _ One more night, _ thinks Tim because he knows that as soon as Mads is able to get out of that place in his mind, he will be able to fully repair himself on his own, at least until everything overwhelms him again. 

In any case, Martin is getting a bit restless. Tim isn’t sure they’re ready to share him for a night, so he doesn’t try to convince them into a stressful situation, but he’s also aware of the fact that Martin is growing more anxious about his performance as playoffs draw nearer, and Tim wants to give Martin plenty of calming care before any negative situation has the chance to heat up.

 

For now, though, the jungler’s quiet thoughts beckon him close, and Tim slips into Mads’s mind as easily as Mads had slipped into his bed.

 

_ When Tim looks around, almost all the smoke is gone, and the pictures have been neatly arranged in a series of rows along the wall. The flowers, once straggled and bunched, woven into each other and scattered on the floor, now rest in a vase, still twinflower and Marguerite daisies wrapped around a cluster of red carnations and a single crumbling vine of forget-me-not. The rest of the forget-me-not has been removed, and when Tim scans the room for where it has gone, he notices that Mads is holding it delicately in his hands. _

_ The tall Dane in front of him has his eyes fixed on the flowers he’s holding, watching them with a melancholy stare, evidently deep in thought. But when Tim steps closer, Mads looks up. _

_ “Oh! You’re here,” he says with a worried smile. “Hi.” _

_ Tim waves. _

_ “So… um… I… well, you can see the door is back, now,” says Mads, nervously gesturing and fidgeting as he explains, “so I won’t be needing your help for too much longer…”  _

As though you’re any trouble at all, Mads. _ Tim makes a face in an attempt to communicate that helping his jungler is the least he could do, but Mads doesn’t seem to understand and just awkwardly huffs a laugh. _

_ “B-but, I, um. Would you come with me?” Mads asks. “T-through, the door, I mean. It, um, won’t be pretty, but… would you? Please?” _

_ Tim gently cups his hands around Mads’s own, still nervously toying with the flowers, and nods firmly, leaning in to comfort the Dane while carefully avoiding crushing the forget-me-nots that stand between them. Sighing softly with relief, Mads leans down to rest his forehead against Tim’s, and they breathe the same air for a few seconds. Then, Tim affectionately bumps their noses, causing Mads to weakly giggle, and Tim hooks his arm through Mads’s to walk through the door together. _

 

_ Mads is right. It’s not pretty. _

_ The door leads to a small but comfortable house. Out of the tall windows, Tim can see a cool, peaceful ocean in the distance and smooth grey skies, all blended into a soft, almost drab-looking shoreline with pastel sands, green vines with small pink buds, and- is that a newly-built pier at the edge of the horizon?  _

_ It’s such a zen scene that the contrast within the house is made much more apparent. _

 

_ There is shattered glass everywhere.  _

 

_ Photo frames are smashed to the ground, little shards of their glass radiating out from the point of impact like rays of the sun and the cracks in the frame like firework explosions. A few plates have been shattered and left in the kitchen. Two of the windows lie clearly agape, wide open to the elements, latches broken, and Tim can only guess how long they’ve been left like that; some of the blinds are also bent and twisted, indicating a violent outbreak that affected areas all over the house. Doors are flung open. A bedroom lies in disarray. Sheets and pillows lay as though they’ve been thrown about.  _

_ It’s certainly not a good sight to see, but under the layer of destruction, the house is still beautiful. _

 

_ “It gets like this, sometimes,” says Mads, and Tim is suddenly reminded of the man at his side - presumably the one who caused this. “Usually I can clean up on my own… I’m sorry to ask for your help,” he sighs, “but this time I don’t think I can do it alone…” _

That’s okay,  _ Tim wants to say, but he can’t speak a word. _

_ He settles for hugging Mads close again, and Mads gingerly sets the forget-me-nots in a planter on a small side table before grabbing a pair of work gloves that hang by the door to the white room and another pair from a drawer in a side table and handing them to Tim. _

_ “Would you help me pick up the glass?” he asks, and Tim grabs the offered dustpan with zeal. Together they gather up all the shards of glass that glint like crystal, and the house is made safe once more. _

_ Once all the most imperative items to clean have been taken care of, Tim moves to take down the blinds which have twisted, broken slats, with the thought of repairing them or replacing the broken slats, but Mads stops him. Tim doesn’t push the issue. Two windows are all that remain to be fixed - well, those and the bedroom, plus the light bloodstains on the sharp edges of some of the cleaved plates - but Mads seems to have no intention of correcting these things now. Perhaps, like the graves on Martin’s beach, these disturbances have some sort of meaning. _

_ For now, Mads sets his gloves back where they belong, and takes Tim’s hand, leading him to a bench behind the house that overlooks the sandy beaches and dune grasses. They sit together in silence for a while. _

_ Then, Tim reaches down to the bench’s feet and lifts a sprig of twinflower to Mads’s hand, raising an eyebrow to ask a question. _

 

_ “Oh.”  _

_ The response is simple but telling. Mads knows the significance of these blooms.  _

_ “Those flowers,” he continues, and Tim watches with owl eyes as Mads explains further. “Martin likes those. They’re kind of his thing, I guess.” But Mads makes no mention of why Martin’s symbolic flowers, the kind that litter Martin’s beaches and look so pretty neatly tucked behind his ear, are in Mads’s mindscape. _

Tap-tap-tap,  _ Tim asks. _

_ “You know… I loved him for a while.” _

Not anymore?  _ Tim tilts his head curiously up at Mads. _

_ “I still do,” Mads admits with a deep breath, “though ever since… Ever since Rasmus left, he hasn’t seemed to want anything to do with me.” _

 

_ And there it is again, the image of the boy whose wreckage Tim is meant to repair. _

_ Something simply must be done to bring these two peace, though Tim would be lying if he said he knew what to do or how to do it, but he has always found it easy to learn as he went, so he isn’t worried. He  _ will _ help these two, these crushes of his. There is no other way for him. _

 

_ He leans still closer to Mads, snuggling the jungler close to show his support and happily sighing when Mads wraps an arm around him and a hand around his much smaller one. Mads begins to stroke Tim’s hand with a gentle touch. _

_ The slow rhythms and breezy winds tumbling through his hair combine with the comfortingly soft colours of the landscape at peace to lull Tim to sleep in Mads’s mental world. _

_ The last thing Tim remembers is a brush of lips against his forehead, the satisfaction of a job well-done, the knowledge that tomorrow will be so much brighter, and a deep, rumbly voice that radiates through his body in the best possible way humming a whimsical tune. _

 

When Tim wakes up, it is to a large hand petting his hair and an excellent, softly-sung rendition of an EDM song Tim only recognises from listening in on Mads’s thoughts. Tim blinks open his eyes to see Mads smiling down at him.

“Good morning,” he says, and his already-baritone voice is even rougher from sleep - it sends a tingly shock down Tim’s spine with every word.

“ ‘Morning,” mumbles Tim sleepily. He’s very tempted to just cuddle up to the jungler and fall asleep again, but that might be a bit too forward, seeing as they haven’t exactly progressed their relationship to anything other than just him helping Mads through a rough time.

But to his surprise, Mads encourages it. “Sleepy?” he teases, ruffling Tim’s hair and cupping his cheek. Tim just makes a muffled noise of affirmation into his pillow. “Aww, come here,” Mads cooes, pulling Tim to him and embracing the little mid-laner for an extra bit of warmth in the cool Berlin air that had rushed into his room through the window at night.

With that permission given, Tim tucks his face into the crook of Mads’s neck and dozes off. He drowses for a time, letting everything around him flow in and out of his mind, hitting him like a gentle wave and then cresting over him as though he is a smooth rock on a beach. It is only when the door creaks open that his mind snaps into action.

 

Martin.

 

It cannot be Gabriel or Hyli or anyone else other than Martin or Mads, else Tim would have heard their thoughts approaching, and it cannot be Mads in the bed with him, so it must be Martin who has opened the door to greet him and found Mads in his bed.

 

“Good morning,” says Mads diplomatically, flopping onto his back, and Martin chokes out a greeting through an equally-roughened morning voice, though Mads’s has smoothed out by now through gentle humming. “Sorry, I just don’t want to disturb him when he’s sleeping. I’ll leave soon.” Though Tim cannot hear Martin’s thoughts - the ADC must be wearing his necklace, which fills Tim with a sense of happiness and an equal sense of nervousness at being unable to read the situation - he can hear Martin step closer and speak. 

“No, it’s fine, you can… you should stay. If you don’t mind,” Martin says, fumbling with his words. The chair in Tim’s room gives a soft squeak of protest as weight falls upon it, likely Martin’s body resting at the desk rather than joining Tim and Mads in the admittedly small bed. Instead of reaching out to the ADC, though, Tim himself continues to play asleep, letting these two work it through. “I-I mean no one says you  _ have _ to stay or anything. It’s your choice. Don’t feel pressured to stay,” Martin continues.

“I’d like to stay if it’s okay with you,” Mads says.

 

Instantly Martin blurts out an agreement- “Yes!”- and a part of Tim melts for how eager and happy Martin is to be given a chance with Mads again. “Yes, that’s okay. That’s great, actually,” says Martin with a bright smile in his voice.

“Great.” From there they sit in awkward silence for a little while, Tim content to play asleep and let the situation guide itself, well-rewarded by the events that transpire.

 

“Um, Martin?” whispers Mads, breaking the silence ever so slightly.

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to join us?” he asks, and Tim internally smiles a face-splitting grin. Over on the chair, he can hear Martin fidget unsurely with the arms of it.

“W-well, is it okay with Tim?”

“Oh. Tim,” says Mads, nudging his shoulder carefully, “Tim.”

 

Blearily Tim blinks, putting on an act and rubbing hard at his eyes. “What?” he grumbles, feigning sleepiness, “it’s not time for scrims yet, is it?”

“No, not yet,” Mads soothes, “not for a while. Um, Martin wants to join us. Can he?”

“Like sleep with us?” Tim asks, leading the conversation to the exact place he wants it to be, baiting the response the way he would bait a fool to engage on him in soloQ.

“Yeah.” This time, Martin takes a turn to shyly speak, and Tim peeks his head up over Mads’s shoulder to look at him -  _ oh fuck he’s so pretty, _ on the chair rolled close to the bed, close enough that even Tim, who would have to reach over Mads to touch Martin, can still reach; in a loose white tee and sweatpants, soft hair and beautiful green eyes shining in the morning sunlight. “I mean, only if you actually want to. Actually, I’m not that sleepy, maybe I’ll just go play soloQ instead, nevermind,” the Swede babbles, standing up to leave, but both Tim and Mads grab his shirt hem.

“Wait! Join us, please?” pleads Tim, and at a single puppy-eyed look from his mid-laner, Martin gives in and settles on the far side of Tim, holding him close between his jungler and his ADC, the perfect place for a mid-laner to be.

 

It’s awkward, at first, as unsure as Tim is about how to proceed, but then Martin takes off his gold-green necklace and leans over him to place it neatly next to the silver chain and leather string, and everything seems to click. Tim snuggles his face into Martin’s shoulder while Martin rests unsure hands on his hips and Mads brackets them both in his strong arms. They’re so warm around him, so heavenly comforting cuddled up around him, so gentle and affectionate, tracing patterns into his skin and encouraging him to sleep as long as he needs, and Tim is filled with an overwhelming bubbliness in his heart. That feeling only grows stronger when he sinks into his dreamy state again and Mads and Martin exchange gentle words of healing, putting each other and themselves together. He can hear their soft words, though in the moment his mind processes nothing except the happiness he feels as they murmur over him, sharing memories and apologies, “I’ll never let you struggle alone again” and “We will make this work” in loving tones, sweethearts long separated and troubled but reunited and recovering. 

 

Even though Tim isn’t quite lucid enough to comprehend all of what they tell each other, he understands enough to know that from today on, it’s not him and Martin  _ or  _ him and Mads. 

 

It is the three of them, together, curled up on a bed; the three of them, together, grabbing a bite to eat; the three of them, together, working through the sudden relapses and the overarching pains. It is Mads helping Martin as Tim helps Martin, it is Tim helping Martin to help Mads, it is, perhaps, Mads and Martin helping Tim himself. It is a Danish song sung in Slovenian and Swedish accents, Swedish comfort food made by Slovenian and Danish hands, Slovenian crystals hung on silver and gold chains over Danish and Swedish hearts. It is jungler, mid-laner, and ADC, the core of a team, taking each others’ hands during times of war and coming out on top at the end of a fight.

 

It is Mads and Tim and Martin, and Tim could not be happier.

 

\---

 

“Tiiiiiiim.”

“Whaaaaaat.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Okay,” says Tim, fingers flying as he combos and gets the outplay in soloQ, Martin letting out an appreciative hum at his performance. “Just let me finish this game and we’ll go get lunch.”  _ Shouldn’t be too much longer, after another double-kill they’ll be FF-ing, _ thinks Tim. True to his expectations, the surrender vote rolls in from the other team as soon as he picks up a double-kill on a sidelane -  _ are they inters? Surely they knew I was coming, right? SoloQ these days… _

He and Martin watch the nexus explode peacefully. “So…” says Martin, “any thoughts on lunch?”

Tim doesn’t really care, but he’s hungry and he’s hungry now, so he suggests fast food, to which someone else in the room responds.

 

“Hey, can I come with?”

“No,” answer both Tim and Martin flatly. They both know Gabriel is just teasing but lunch is special to them, always just the two of them talking about what their mornings have been like, quiet and relaxed after many repeat occasions.

Before Tim stands up, though, he can’t help but notice Mads watching him curiously. The jungler’s head is tilted, as though a question is on the tip of his tongue, but when he catches Tim’s gaze he immediately refocuses his eyes on the screen in front of him.

 

No words are spoken and no minds are read, but Tim and Martin still know what he wants to say.

 

“You can come with, if you want to, Mads,” says Martin, shifting his weight off of Tim’s chair to lean on the back of Mads’s.

“Yeah, we’ll wait for you!” Tim agrees. 

Mads’s face turns a pretty shade of light pink as he mumbles an agreement. “Sure, I have to finish this game, though. It might be a while.”

Tim checks the game time and sees that Mads is right - his game has really just begun, only six minutes into the fun, so he wheels his chair over to watch the jungler play while they wait, and though Mads tries to apologise for making them stick around, both Tim and Martin quickly shut him down.

 

Soon enough they’re off to lunch, walking side by side by side. It had taken a bit longer than normal to get going, thanks to Gabriel’s incessant teasing, but once Hyli had told him to shut up, Tim and Mads and Martin were able to get going without fuss. Tim is pleased to see that Martin makes an active effort to keep Mads clued into how these events usually go, leading him through the right streets and pitching him questions so that their conversations don’t become exclusive. When they reach their fast food of choice, Tim is also pleasantly surprised by how Mads carves out a spot for himself in their lunch date, ordering food in German that is far more perfect than either Tim’s or Martin’s and talking with them like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Tim is glad that it is so.

They bounce soloQ stories off of each other, little anecdotes about accidentally inting it or supports who run it down or a horrible game where everyone flamed poor Mads because he zoned out and died to red buff - admittedly, Tim and Martin are laughing, too, but Martin’s hand on Mads’s shoulder and Tim’s knees knocking against his means that Mads is smiling despite himself - or the latest way Twitch chat teases any one of them. And it’s peaceful as well; Martin snatches a few of Tim’s fries and they both steal pieces of lettuce from Mads’s salad. 

Once they’re done eating, they get some fries to bring back for Hyli and Gabriel. Then they return, side by side by side.

 

Day by day, week by week, their lunch dates continue. Time after time, they make small talk, occasionally dipping their toes into deeper territory but never quite their real issues, only the safe, self-made, whitewashed version of the truth. That is what worries Tim.

In order for them to work as a set of three, they must be able to trust one another just the way they trust him with their dark sides and pains. Otherwise, Tim is just caught in a glorified love triangle. He doesn’t want that!

What he wants is the three of them all tied to each other, not just to him.

 

Luckily for Tim, he has the abilities to make it happen.

 

\---

 

As often as they eat lunch together, they curl up in the same bed in the morning - usually Tim’s, but sometimes Martin’s, if he’s been having a rough day and Tim crawls under his covers to sleep before Mads joins them the next morning. 

 

Tim finds that his favourite way to wake up involves both of them. Martin likes to curl up between him and the wall, while Mads prefers to sleep on the side of the bed closest to the door so that if he wants to leave a bit early he won’t be bothering anyone. Sometimes Martin flops on top of them, or Mads will be spooning Tim and then roll onto his back in his sleep, shifting Tim to lie on top of Mads’s broad chest and Martin’s slimmer frame. Usually, though, Tim gets to sleep in the middle.

He receives the best of the attention given, with first priority for morning nuzzles, hands running through his hair until he falls back asleep, cuddled on both sides. Tim also has the best access to kiss Mads’s cheek and Martin’s forehead from how they typically arrange themselves, so he’s certainly not complaining about his spot, especially not with the warmth that lulls him into the most peaceful slumber, despite being so close to his ADC and jungler that he can’t help but mindread so much that he basically ends up sharing minds with them. 

 

They always take off their necklaces and lay them on the bedside tray, leaving themselves vulnerable to Tim, trusting him wholly if only for a few hours, and it makes Tim’s heart warm every single time it happens. He’s not afraid to admit that his crushes on them may have intensified into a stronger desire to love them both. From the thoughts in Martin and Mads’s heads, he’s not alone in that feeling.

 

And their days together show it, Martin calling Tim by cute nicknames and Mads following suit, chirping “Nemmy” while they soloQ and ruffling his hair whenever they walk by, making the already-fluffy mess into something that resembles a bird’s nest. They’re all more than happy to promote Tim’s ideas for games, and, with the captain’s support, Tim feels like he’s an actual part of the team rather than just the new guy. At LEC they all take time to talk to each other before games. Even though it usually ends up being Martin who dominates the conversation, anxiously chattering in quick-paced, accented English, Tim knows that just by listening he and Mads are soothing their ADC’s occasionally-frazzled nerves, and Tim also begins the enjoyable process of memorising what sort of things his crushes like - their favourite drinks, favourite movies, favourite topics, what flavour of cereal bar they prefer, and other little things that brighten up their days if given or mentioned to them.

 

Of course, they’re closer in more than just the public eye, and a shared reality leaks into their dreams as well.. When they lie sharing a bed for an hour or so in the morning, Martin often drowses just like Tim, and when he dreams, he doesn’t reach that unconscious, swirling, slowly-brightening ocean; instead he dreams of a place that Tim hasn’t seen but for in Martin’s head, probably his flat, and the three of them there, eating dinner or watching a movie or playing a random video game, sometimes cuddling and making out. It’s all rather sweet and Tim loves it when these dreams flow into his hazy morning mind. There are also a few…  _ lewd _ dreams which Martin wakes up from with pink cheeks, always awkwardly kissing Tim’s forehead as if to reassure him that he’s loved for more than just his body, another sweet sentiment to share.

Though Mads does not often sleep when they share the bed as the sun rises, he does think, quite a bit. Little murmurings like  _ they’re so beautiful _ and  _ I missed Martin so much, how could I ever have let him go? _ float through Mads’s mind alongside quietly-thought hopes of  _ maybe we’ll get a flat together, someday _ and  _ maybe I could ask them on a genuine date next week? _ that make Tim’s heart melt for the adorable, gentle giant.

 

Unfortunately for Mads, Martin beats him to the punch.

 

“H-hey… Tim,” murmurs Martin on one peaceful morning. Outside, the nightingales are softly singing to each other while morning traffic bustles through the city, all the noises faintly sounding into Tim’s room where he lies atop Mads’s chest, legs sprawled across Martin at their side. Inside, the bassy rhythms of electropop playing through Mads’s mind combine with the traces of outside sounds to make perfect ambience.

“Yeah, Martin?” Tim mumbles, barely awake.

“Um, Mads, too?” Tim doesn’t have to open his eyes or read any minds to know that Martin gently rubs Mads’s shoulder to check that he’s awake - he’s seen it often enough and he can feel how Mads’s body moves under him with the touch.

“Hm?” hums Mads in a rumble that seeps through Tim’s body like the most amazing massage.

“S-so,” Martin begins, “I was wondering if you, uh, might like to come to my flat? For dinner and a movie?” Tim and Mads are suddenly both very interested in the topic, and their eyes fly open to look at Martin next to them. “I-i-if you’d like you could stay the night as well? There’s only one bed though so we’ll have to share. If that’s what you’re okay with, I mean.” A smile crests over Tim’s face, though Martin is too busy looking everywhere in the room except at Tim and Mads to see it, as nervous as poor Martin seems to be about the proposition.

 

“I’d love to!” says Tim excitedly, shifting his weight over to pull Martin into a hug.

“Me too,” Mads agrees, and finally Martin looks them in the eye as though he’s unsure if they’re speaking the truth.

Having examined them, he is satisfied. “Okay,” he says, breathing a sigh of relief. “That’s amazing. That’s great! Thank you so much.” Tim guides Martin’s head towards his, leaving a tiny kiss on Martin’s nose which the ADC receives with delight.

“When?” asks Mads.

“Tomorrow? Whenever, really; we all have the same schedule, after all.”

“Great,” says Mads, nuzzling behind Martin’s ear. “I can’t wait.”

 

\---

 

The chosen day arrives, and, having spent the majority of their free time this day unable to speak with Martin, as he’s been out and about, both Mads and Tim are eager to head over to Martin’s flat and see what he’s been up to since scrims ended a couple of hours ago. Tim is rather hungry, having conserved his appetite, and even with the two crystals between his mind and Mads’s he can sense the excitement of the jungler.

“When should we head over?” Tim asks, leaning on Mads’s shoulder while the jungler plays one last game of soloQ. He pretends not to notice how Mads’s pulse speeds up ever so slightly, a sign of how he’s still nervous about the relationship he knows Tim and Martin seek to start. 

“In about half an hour,” responds Mads. The jungler is still calmly clicking through his game, using Rek’sai’s ult with ease and quickly securing a kill, then winning the teamfight before dying to a well-placed Phantom Undertow. His gameplay is smooth and logical, less full of flashy outplays - though there are some, like the one Tim just watched - and more about keeping his teammates going. He does change some of his habits in soloQ, but his playstyle is actually somewhat comforting to Tim. It’s a pleasant change, having a jungler who plays for their lanes rather than hard-carries the team like Selfmade did.

“Okay,” says Tim, and he makes himself comfortable for the rest of Mads’s game.

 

With only about ten minutes to spare before departure, Mads’s game ends, and he and Tim use their spare time to finish throwing together overnight bags of clothing and toothbrushes. “Let’s go!” chirps Tim excitedly, once he’s added the jewellery tray in with the rest.

“Let’s go,” agrees Mads, giving the mid-laner a side-armed hug before stepping out of the door.

 

\---

 

_ Tap, tap, tap, _ ring Tim’s knuckles on Martin’s door. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Mads looking at him, casting a furtive glance up and down the hall while they wait, though he doesn’t quite get why Mads is on the lookout. Then, a large hand rests on the small of his back, and Tim understands. Mads is shy with his physical affection.

_ That’s actually so cute. _

They’re left waiting on the doorstep for only a few seconds more before the door swings open to reveal a mildly-harried Martin with mussed hair, shirt undone at the top two buttons revealing a beautiful lack of a golden chain, and a dish towel in hand. “H-hi,” he stutters out, swinging the door wider. “Come in.”

 

As soon as Tim steps inside, he knows that his suspicions were correct. The rooms in Martin’s dreams that Tim didn’t recognise came straight from Martin’s reality, direct pictures of Martin’s flat - clean, modern-looking, bright with natural light from tall windows and comfortably-sized.

“I just have to warm up the bread,” Martin says, darting back into the kitchen and Mads, probably the most culinarily-skilled out of all of them, follows him along his path after dropping off his bag while Tim notices that the places aren’t laid out at the circular table, so he busies himself with setting out silverware, redoing his work when he realises that he set the table for a left-handed person and not right-handed people. He’s correcting the last fork placement when Martin and Mads set down plates with spaghetti and salad, Martin bustling away and quickly returning with glasses and a pitcher of water as well as a tray of sliced bread before sitting down at the table with an exhausted sigh. He breathes in a certain way that catches Tim’s attention - a few normal breaths soon turning into quick, deep heaves like those of hyperventilation.

 

Tim is slightly worried.

 

“This looks really good,” he says, reaching for Martin’s hand under the table and instead finding Martin’s rapidly-bouncing knee, which jerks violently when he brushes past it, causing Tim to grab Martin’s hand as soon as he can. “Hey,” he soothes, “it’s good.”

“We’re good,” says Mads, continuing in the same vein. “I know it’s kind of pointless to tell you this, but you don’t have to worry.”

Tim nods his head and lets their intertwined hands rest on Martin’s leg while he takes deep breaths, slower this time, and shifts his eyes up from his plate to look at the two next to him. He takes one, two heaving breaths with a measured exhale. “Thanks,” he says, “It’s better now.”

“Good,” Mads hums, and they all smile at each other sappily before Tim’s stomach grumbles audibly and he giggles with embarrassment.

“Well, let’s eat,” says Martin shakily, but with a soft smile still on his face.

 

Tim practically devours the food on his plate, as hungry as he is. Even though he seems rather thin, Tim can attest that he does eat more than enough for a boy of his age and height, and the spaghetti is good, so he eats plenty, though he slows down as he senses a sort of mood coming over the table.

It’s an aura of deep-rooted anxiety, mostly pouring off of Martin who seems to have not yet fully recovered from his previous bout of nervousness. Tim doesn’t know what Martin has to be afraid of, but a little sleuthing and leaning into the fearful cloud that he can feel pushing up against the thoughts in his mind show him the truth soon enough.

He’s unsure of what to do.

 

Martin has only ever been here, at a table, eating a dinner he made, with two other people so near to him and so adoring of him, one time before; it was a time that ended abruptly and left one grave festering and one dug prematurely. Telling that Martin is afraid of it all going wrong is easy. Finding a solution is the hard part.

Mindreading means that Tim is more than able to figure out the exact root of the current problem, the worry and overwhelming unsureness that mostly comes from Mads’s persistence in a relationship with Martin. To put it simply, Martin is currently in a brief moment of disbelief that Mads is really willing to try again. The poor ADC’s heart has been shattered too many times, too many jagged graves marring the seacoast of his mind, too many red lines along the crooks of his ribs… a quiet undertone in Martin’s mental presence hints that his trust is there, but weak. And something about not fully trusting them with his heart just yet makes Martin’s guilt swell. It’s a small issue that rolls into shore and mounts higher and higher to a breaking point, the breaking point being what seems like a panic attack in the middle of their dinner.

 

The Swede has long since stopped eating, instead just picking at his food intermittently and nudging the pasta around on his plate.

“Martin?” Tim asks quietly, interrupting a conversation he had been having with Mads about the day’s scrims. “Is everything alright?”

“Fine,” is the terse response he gets. At least Martin takes a bite of his salad then, in an attempt to seem as though his heartbeat doesn’t feel like it’s stuttering or his world is spinning on the wrong axis.

“You look a little pale,” he presses, and Martin freezes, breathing deeply and shakily.

“I’m fine. It happens.”

On Tim’s other side, Mads seems to want to say something, his lips slightly parted in the way they often are when he’s preparing to speak a well-formed thought, but then he looks away and-

 

_ Of course this would happen. Just my luck that it happens on the first big date, as well, huh. _

 

“Are you not hungry? I’m pretty full now, anyway. Would you go start the movie?” Tim asks, redirecting Martin’s attention to something different in the hopes that the change of scenery helps stop the panic attack.

Martin’s hands are shaking so badly that when he sets down the fork, it rattles briefly against the plate. “Of course.”

“Are you done as well, Mads?”

Tim isn’t expecting a verbal reply, so he makes sure to look at Mads and pay attention to the reaction, but to his surprise - “Yes,” mumbles Mads, quietly but with determination and persistence through the quiet air.

 

The jungler is present. The jungler is not letting the silence burn through him.   
Tim is so proud.

 

But the effects of the unsteadiness and awkward silence of the situation are prominent, and Tim can sense the mental activity of the jungler slowly dulling, that small white room no longer a prison but certainly still clouding with orange-pink smoke.

 

“Cool,” says Tim, and he stands up, taking both of their hands and leading them to the sofa, which Martin had set up before their arrival with a few throw blankets and a laptop for their movie. He sits them down, Martin first, the ADC’s shaking quelled by a fuzzy blanket draped over his shoulders. Martin looks dazed and confused, though he snaps to attention when Mads’s arm comes to rest on his shoulders, and Martin giggles softly, leaning his head on Mads’s shoulder for a brief second before picking up the laptop.

“Tim,” Martin mumbles with a gulp, “what, ah, what sort of movie would you like?”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Tim replies with a kiss to Martin’s cheek. “I’m going to go clean up a bit, put the plates in the sink. I’ll be right back.” He presses a finger to Martin’s lips when he tries to protest, and runs off to tidy up as soon as possible.

 

When Tim returns to the two on the sofa, now curled up under one large blanket, he sees that Mads’s necklace has been set on the coffee table and the movie is already beginning - a superhero movie, but he’s not really sure which superhero; these are great movies to watch randomly but Tim never kept up with the comic books and whatnot. Mads tugs the blanket to one side, opening up the cuddlefest to Tim. As Tim goes to sit down on Martin’s other side, a pair of arms wrap around his hips and pull him to flop down between them, half in Mads’s lap and half in Martin’s, and he squeaks, surprised.

“You’re so cute,” Martin murmurs into Tim’s neck, throwing the blanket over them all as Mads rests his other arm over Tim.   
Mads taps once on both Martin’s shoulder and Tim’s thigh.

“One tap for yes, two for no, three for tell me more,” Tim muses aloud, and Martin hums in thought.

“Sleepy?” he asks Mads, apparently still slightly in the dark about the reasons for Mads occasional silence, so Tim carefully fills him in about their differing ways of coping with stress, Mads having been sent into a weak stupor by Martin’s own anxiety, and as the opening scenes of the movie run, Martin lifts a hand to rest atop Mads’s on his shoulder. 

 

Throughout the film, the three exchange small gestures of affection. Tim rests his head between Mads’s and Martin’s shoulder, curled on his side with his knees pulled up on Martin’s thigh. Martin’s arms are around his waist, and the ADC periodically presses his lips to Tim’s hairline with tenderness and radiating happiness that make Tim’s heart swell with joy. One of Mads’s hands still strokes soft lines into Martin’s far shoulder. The other makes its home on the side of Tim’s thigh, at first simply holding its position but, as the movie progresses and Mads’s mind becomes more lively with thoughts, Mads begins to gently rub Tim’s thigh as well, leaving little kisses behind Tim’s ear that make the mid-laner giggle at random moments of the movie. Whenever he does, Martin looks at them fondly and nuzzles Tim’s cheek while squeezing Mads’s hand.

When the movie starts out, Tim feels as though he’s a peculiar intrusion to a previously-existing routine. By the time the movie ends, both of his boys are hugging him close between them, wrapping him up in strong arms and a blanket and emotions of happiness, peace, satisfaction, and-

_ Love. _

 

It feels really good, exciting and addicting, like a high Tim never wants to let go of, sweet and fun and joyous, every sort of good emotion bubbling up through their minds and melding with his own pre-existing happiness to create a swirl of feelings that makes Tim smile wide and bright as the end credits roll.

A light touch against his face, softly brushing his cheek, gives him pause. He looks up, smile frozen on his face, and Martin smiles back with a soft, radiant little cat-like grin.

“You’re so cute,” Martin says, and Tim can feel his face heat up. He didn’t hear a single whisper of that thought float fully-formed through Martin’s head before it emanated as words, so Martin must have spoken without thinking, letting his guard down when it’s just him and Mads and Tim. That realisation alone almost sends Tim into a second of happy shock, though the followup from Mads quickly brings Tim back to reality.

“He’s right. You’re so cute and caring,” Mads continues with Martin’s train of thought. Tim knows for certain that he’s blushing red now by how hot his cheeks feel and the adoring cooes from Martin and Mads as they cup his face in their hands and leave little kisses over his blush.

“So cute, so caring, so smart!” praises Martin, nudging Tim’s hips until he’s facing them with his back to the laptop screen, giving Martin and Mads plenty of freedom to hug him close, cuddle him, nuzzle him, kiss him all over and watch as he reacts with giggles and murmured words of thanks.

“So amazing,” Mads finishes, “with everything you do for us.” He kisses Tim’s forehead with these words, pressing the thought of them and his gratefulness into Tim’s mind with a plea to never forget.

“So amazing,” repeats Martin, and he copies the kiss to Tim’s forehead with the same outpouring of loving thoughts. “Come on, let’s go cuddle on an actual bed instead of a couch,” he encourages. “Easier that way, right?”

“Of course,” Mads replies, and Tim agrees.

 

Before Tim can even get to his feet, Mads has somehow scooped him up into a bridal-style hold, cradling the small mid-laner while Martin leads them to the bedroom. Once they get there, Tim is lightly set down in the middle, with Martin and Mads on either side. It’s rather late thanks to the length of the movie, so Tim is sleepy already and dozing off while Martin grabs some extra pillows; the scent of mint and Martin is all around him, and the sheets are soft and comforting. Mads snuggles him close just as his eyes close. By the time Martin slips under the covers with pillows for Mads and himself, Tim is half-asleep.

Two goodnight kisses later, his soft, slow, steady breathing fills the room and his own consciousness.

 

\---

 

_ I love you, _ echo someone else’s thoughts in his head, and Tim hears another’s thoughts drift through him in reply.

_ I love you too, _ a mind thinks. Tim can feel himself slowly gathering into consciousness, eyes closed but thoughts quickly awakening, picking up speed with every second and clarity as his dreams slough off of him like snow off a fir tree’s boughs.

 

The first thing that his alert mind notices is his position on the bed.

He’s snuggled down the bed ever so slightly, to the point where he can feel Martin’s breath teasing his bedhead and Mads’s collarbones against the nape of his neck, and Tim can tell that his face is pressed into Martin’s chest. Their faces and minds are above him. And he likes where he is, the heartbeats of his lovers -  _ Ah, perhaps that’s presumptuous, we haven’t talked about anything yet _ \- pressed against him, front and back, surrounding him in warmth. Everything feels so soft and happy and cuddly that he just wants to curl up between them like a cat and make them stay in bed for an hour or two. With such a peaceful sensation and not a trace of anger or sadness or pain that he can sense anywhere in the world around him, Tim could drowse forever, the comfortable thoughts soothing every hurt in the world for him.

Then he hears a soft smacking noise from above him, and his mind is a razor’s edge again.

 

The cause of the sounds is unmistakably gentle and caring and, with every little noise, Tim finds that he can’t help but give in to the urge to sleuth out why. Without warning the noises stop and Martin and Mads’s breathing rhythms pick up speed like they’re catching their breath from some sort of exertion or deprivation of air, so Tim immediately makes the connection between them and the noise. From above him on the bed, a murmuring takes the place of the gentle smacks. Mads and Martin’s voices intermingle in a blend that’s more wonderful than the sweetest pastry to Tim, and someone’s hands on his hips begin to trace lazy circles that make him sigh contentedly while Martin’s bright giggles float through the air.

“I love you,” echoes a voice, heard with ear and not mind, deeper than normal thanks to sleep but not quite Mads’s bassy timbre.

“I love you too,” another voice says, vibrating into Tim’s chest and striking his heart with a profound sense of melancholy. It mumbles something else after that, but Tim is too caught up in what he’s sure is their resolution to listen to what else Mads has to say.

 

_ Well. This is it, isn’t it.  _

 

Tim has been in enough situations of helping others that he is well aware of how most people have no desire to keep the solver around once the problem has been solved. It’s sad but true. If anything, Tim is the exact opposite of a fair-weather friend; he’s much beloved in rough times but not particularly appreciated in times of ease.

_ At least they’re happy, _ thinks Tim, consoling himself the same way he always does. He remembers his  _ babica _ ’s command to be altruistic, that the power of mind-reading isn’t given to just any old person but to people who must use it well and justly, and even though he used to dismiss her ideas with all the other old wisdom, Tim can’t deny that it has stuck with him.

 

Give your abilities to the greater good. Give your help to those in need. Give your time to your team.

Give yourself to anyone who needs you.

And don’t expect anything from them in return.

Put your skill to the test, give as much as you can without breaking, maybe give as much as you can without breaking beyond repair because a break is easily fixed, put your body on the pyre, give up your health to your team, carry the world on your shoulders no matter how much it hurts.

And don’t hope to get something out of it. After all, he already has the most special gift, and nothing he ever can do will make up for it.

 

Or so his grandmother insisted.

 

It’s not in Tim’s nature to believe that there is no way out, so he’s rather confident that he’s repaid his debt of reading minds by saving one, two, maybe three lives at this point, but he’s still uncertain of whether he’s served his purpose to Mads and Martin or if they want to keep him around for a while longer. He decides to take the easy way out and pretend that he’s been sleeping, not listening in on their confessions to each other.

“Tim? Tiiiiiiim,” croons Martin.

 

_ Aw, fuck. _

 

Tim rubs at his eyes the way he always does when he wakes up, feigning slumber and propping himself up on one elbow, leaning away from Mads and Martin’s embraces, which proves pointless. They nudge him back down with patient touches.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” Martin giggles again, clearly high off of Mads’s love. Despite the slight bitterness on his tongue, Tim grins and greets Martin in return. “How’d you sleep?” asks Martin.

“Good,” Tim replies, aloof. “It was warm.”

“Good,” Mads hums happily, also with a broad smile to match Martin’s, and Tim’s weakening one.

 

After a brief few moments, Mads clears his throat and begins to speak again. Tim braces himself for the worst.

“So, um, Martin and I have been talking, and…”

_ Here it comes. _

“We were, uh, we were wondering…”

_ Just get it over with. _

But Mads keeps on stuttering and jumping words, Tim’s heart falling further and further until it feels sunken into the floor, and finally, Martin steps in with a light kiss to Mads’s cheek and a hand cupping Tim’s face. “We were wondering if you’d like to date us. Like- like a threesome. Sort of. A poly.” Martin’s face is flushed pink, so adorably flustered and nervous about them for some reason, eyes hopeful when they look at Tim while Tim can barely stand to meet their gazes.

 

“You know you don’t have to do this.”

 

"What?"

"You don't have to feel obligated to bring me into it. You can be happy on your own, I won't be jealous or sad; it's fine." Tim's face is carefully emotionless and blank, hopefully ensuring that he'll get the real reaction from them now that they're free to let him go.

But Martin's voice sounds choked, and his mind is swirling with confusion. "What? But I want both of you…" he claims as Tim sits up and Mads rushes to hug him.

"Yes, we want all three of us, me and you and Martin," Mads says with conviction, and Tim, though still on the fence, does lean back into their arms.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course!" Martin exclaims.

Tim, however, refuses to take his word for it, and gently rests his forehead against Martin's.

 

_ In his mindscape, Martin is anxiously pacing the shores of a choppy, roughened sea that climbs ever closer to him as he walks, wearing a path in the sand. When he notices Tim, though, he pauses. Then he runs to Tim, slinging arms around his neck as the ocean soothes itself into a calmer washing against the dunes and grey sea grasses melded with pink twinflower and Marguerite daisies and some flower that is red. From his view over Martin's shoulder, arms around the ADC's waist, Tim can see a small beach house in the distance. _

 

In the physical world, Martin is scrunching up his face so cutely, radiating powerful waves of affection and all the positive feelings he has for his mid-laner, and Tim is quickly convinced, relaxing into the sheets and his sweethearts.

Behind him, Mads leans his head against Tim's and does the same, pushing so much bubbly excitement and happy, love-induced nervousness through the air that Tim shivers with the endorphins.

 

_ Mads's mind is much the same. The first thing that Tim notices upon materialising in the house is a set of pictures all in new frames, lining the bookshelves with snapshots of him and Mads or him and Martin, and some of the best have all three of them together, moving in a memory. A small flowerpot holds a little plant of forget-me-not in a corner. On the main tables lie vases filled with beautiful arrangements of twinflower, daisies, and red carnations all blended beautifully. _

_ Strong arms suddenly around his waist surprise Tim, but he leans into the touch as Mads kisses his cheek. _

 

"All right," says Tim, and the apprehension in the room resolves in an instant.

"So you'll be our boyfriend? And we'll be yours?" asks Martin, double-checking for anxiety's sake.

"Yes," Tim replies easily, convinced that they really do want him with them, and Martin practically screams with excitement before cutting himself off. He doesn't try to keep himself from squeezing the little mid-laner tightly, though. Tim squeaks and giggles, hugging Martin back, and nuzzling Mads when the jungler kisses along his jawline. 

"Hey," Martin begins, stroking Tim's cheek, "can I- can I kiss you?" The ADC's gaze keeps flicking between the grey of Tim's eyes and the pink of his lips, eagerly watching Tim's every reaction, and Mads behind him affectionately rubs his hips, moving down to press lips to his neck, humming happily.

Tim blushes red. "S-sure," he mumbles, and he's entranced by how Martin leans forward, green eyes practically sparkling. Then their lips meet, and Tim practically melts.

 

Martin kisses so happily and excitedly, smiling against Tim, lashes fluttering with a bright expression, and Tim presses against soft, plush, pink lips that lock onto his with a joy that feels amazing. It’s so nice, just letting himself blend into the ADC. A gentle wave of pure happiness washes through the space between them, cresting against both and then swaying to the other, and Tim gasps in surprise when Martin pushes him back down onto the bed, running slender fingers through his hair and humming into their kiss. 

When they finally break apart, breathing heavy with lidded eyes, Mads is still right there, a hand on Martin’s hip and lips leaving butterfly kisses on Tim’s neck. “My turn,” he giggles in that deep voice of his, and they all titter giddily before Martin nudges Tim up onto his side so that he can kiss Mads from a better angle, which the jungler quickly takes advantage of.

 

Mads kisses deeply and languorously, eyes closed as if sleeping while he takes careful note of every sensation from Tim’s soft little breaths to the point of contact between their lips and the way the mid-laners smile broadens, then turns to a soft half-moan when Mads grips one of his hips and runs a thumb over the line of his hip bones. Tim giggles embarrassedly when their lips part, but Mads just gives him eskimo kisses and chuckles.

“Cutie,” he teases, and Tim flushes redder. Behind him, Martin hugs him close, cuddling the mid-laner in the opposite position from what they usually do, and Martin kisses Mads lightly over Tim’s shoulder.

 

“Very cute,” agrees Martin, “both of you, my cute, beautiful, strong boyfriends.”

"Boyfriends," muses Mads, a broad grin on his face. 

"Boyfriends!" singsongs Martin, and he peppers Tim with little kisses all over his face, then stopping to pull back and look at him adoringly, eyes soft and loving.

“Boyfriends,” Tim says confidently, and he closes his eyes, smiling, drawing their warmth closer to him under the sheets of Martin’s bed and gathered up in Mads’s arms, letting his mind slip and wander as it pleases.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :>


	7. No Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They barely need sleep with the 'honeymoon' high they're on, so happy in their new relationship, feeling like they're dreaming with how wonderful everything is.  
> But any dream could turn into a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title: [No Sleep](https://open.spotify.com/track/1ahVFh0ViDZr8LvkEVlq3B?si=KZoU2PP1Qhq3UeU1IdzChQ), by Martin Garrix, feat. Bonn.  
> notes: some cute stuff and a bit of plot for leading to the next chapter!  
>  **TW: mention of blood and wound, attempted self-harm**
> 
> this chapter has been re-edited extensively, and nearly 5000 words have been added - that's right, this chapter almost doubled in size! in fact, this is my longest chapter yet.  
> i hope you enjoy the improvements!

Snuggled close on all sides, peppered with gentle kisses and knowing that he’s free to reciprocate as deeply as he wants, Tim is soon lulled into sleep surrounded by an aura of love. He can’t help that he falls asleep so often in their arms. After all, he feels safest when he’s with them - even more so now that they’re all dating and he knows they like him too.

 

When he wakes again, eyelashes fluttering, Mads is right there. “Good morning again, sleepyhead,” Mads teases, tilting Tim’s head up for another kiss that still makes his world spin a little with exhilaration.

“ ‘Morning,” breathes Tim when their lips part and Martin leans in to take his turn. “Good morning to you, too,” Tim says, giggling slightly. The ADC’s skin is slightly tacky with sweat, and the taste of salt on Martin’s lips stuns Tim a little, a slight surprise so early in the morning.

“Sorry, just went to the gym for a run,” Martin explains, “woke up a bit early and didn’t want to waste any part of the day having to be away.” 

A bassy vibration echoes through Tim from Mads’s chest as the jungler hums, then kisses his cheek once more, eliciting another giggle from the mid-laner. “Come on, Tim, let’s go make breakfast. I’m making Martin take a shower before I hug him,” Mads says with a teasing look, and Martin affectionately swats at him lightly. 

There’s still a little unsureness in the jungler’s mind - something about uncertainty and insecurity that Tim will have to address before it catches fire - but it has much improved and doesn’t worry Tim at all any more, as light as a curl of smoke. 

 

Obeying Mads’s words, Martin scurries off to the bathroom with a pair of boxers and Mads’s shirt, though not without kissing Mads’s neck and Tim’s lips again. Fondly, Mads sighs at the loss of another item of clothing. Tim just giggles as he watches Mads dig through Martin’s closet and pull out an old Fnatic shirt that is far too large to have originally belonged to Martin, then put it on with a soft, dopey grin on his face.

“How many of your shirts does he have?” Tim asks, also smiling so happily.

Mads chuckles. “At least three that I saw, probably more that I didn’t.” He courteously reaches out a hand to Tim sitting on the bed and pulls Tim up with a graceful strength that has Tim falling into Mads, who then leads Tim by the hand into the kitchen. 

They poke through Martin’s refrigerator and find leftover pasta and tomato sauce from the night before, plus some eggs and bread in a bag on the countertop. Apparently Martin had gone shopping as well during his early-morning outing. 

“Great,” says Mads, clapping his hands decisively, “we’ll make eggs in tomato sauce with bread,” and Tim clings to his arm as he spoons out ingredients into a pan. Mesmerised, Tim watches on as Mads heats up a delicious-looking combination of sauce, extra spices, and some eggs lightly sprinkled with pepper, then puts a lid on the saucepan and lets the eggs cook through purely from residual heat. _He’s a marvellous cook,_ thinks Tim, _real boyfriend material, maybe even more than that._ Tim then blushes a bit despite himself. 

 

As Mads sets himself to the task of slicing up some bread for them, the repetition of the task seems to allow thoughts to run more freely within his head, unrestrained by a need to focus. Soon enough, the little trails of pink-orange smoke in the jungler’s head build into a smouldering, half-lit, half-dead fire of a burning question, and soon thereafter, Mads can’t take the heat in his head.

“Tim…” he begins to ask, the knife’s steady slicing motion grinding to a halt, and Tim singsongs an answer.

“Yes?”

Mads takes a breath and nervously taps his toes against the tile floor. “You know, you don’t have to be in a relationship with us if you don’t want to,” says Mads, and Tim sighs - of course the jungler is insecure about why Tim would even want to be with them in the first place; after all, Mads thinks he’s a horrible trouble even for the little spells of silence that don’t require much attention to solve. If Mads were just a bit less stubborn in his lack of self-esteem, Tim would have rebuilt him sky-high by now. But Mads is Mads, always a touch worried that he’s taking too much for himself and always too eager to give what little he has away if it would only benefit someone else. “It’s okay,” Mads continues, “you don’t have to do this just so you can help us. There are other ways to help… people like… well, people like me and Martin. Like… like therapy, and other stuff like that. Especially for Martin. You don’t have to date us.”

 

“I know,” Tim says.

“I mean, you can say no, if you want to,” Mads says quietly. He hasn’t put his necklace back on, and neither has Tim, so the thoughts from Mads’s mind, full of melancholy and insecurity and fear of rejection, drift into Tim’s head as well, and Tim frowns sadly at Mads’s sadness.

“I know.” Tim would say it a million times over just to reassure Mads in the slightest.

“Like, you don’t have to pretend to like us,” continues Mads, seemingly stuck in the mindset of not being good enough. “It’s okay, we won’t be offended…” And yet he can’t meet Tim’s eyes, too afraid of truly being shunted aside to look at his boyfriend, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the simmering tomato sauce.

“I’m not pretending, Mads,” Tim responds, slowly and confidently.

“...You say you’re not, but…”

 

Internally, Tim sighs, but he knows for certain that this conversation is something that Mads really truly needs to hear. Mads likes things in certain terms, no ambiguity, and though Tim may already have proclaimed a very loud desire to date both Mads and Martin, well, it can’t hurt to say it again, right? “Yes, Mads,” he reiterates, “I like you and Martin.”

Still, Mads seems to be in disbelief. “Even though we… you know, struggle a lot? I would imagine it’s a lot of work dating us; we’re pro players with mental issues and that could get really overwhelming at times, don’t you think?” Mads begins to gnaw at his lip, and Tim gently reaches up to touch his cheek tenderly.

“I know you both need help and probably therapy,” says Tim slowly and with conviction.

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

“No, it doesn’t bother me.” He smiles as reassuringly as he can at Mads who is staring at the eggs in the tomato sauce as though they’re the most important thing in the world at the very moment.

Mads inhales shakily. “You… you still… you still want to be our boyfriend?”

 _“Yes,”_ Tim says firmly, taking Mads’s hand and leaving no room for argument. “I still want to be your boyfriend. Both of you. I still want to love you both, even if it might take some time and work.”

The sigh that Mads breathes is both heartwarming and depressing - heartwarming for the soft smile and emotional wave of relief that accompany it, and depressing for its source: Mads’s insecurities. “Okay,” Mads says, “thank you. It… it means a lot to me. Thank you for trying with us.”

“Thank you for letting me,” says Tim with a responding soft smile, leaning on Mads’s side and almost purring when Mads puts an arm around his shoulders, then smiling even more when Martin reappears and kisses him, wet hair leaving water droplets on his cheek. Tim hums another soft ‘good morning.’

 

“Good morning to you too,” Martin chirps, with a kiss for Mads as well. He weasels his way between them to stand in the middle, and he grins when Mads finally hugs him, their first hug of the day or at least the day since Tim had reawoken, and smiles somehow even wider and sweeter when Tim rests his head on Martin’s shoulder, linking them all together by hands and arms around waists.

They stand there for a while, just watching the eggs cook and the sauce bubble periodically. But to Tim’s surprise, Martin himself soon begins to giggle, taking one of Tim’s hands and one of Mads’s and swinging them back and forth with such childlike glee that it kindles a glowing fire in Tim’s heart even as he feels the chill from his hands leaching into Martin’s warmth. “What’s up?” Mads asks, all smiles as he watches his boyfriend be so cheery.

“I don’t know,” Martin replies, still overjoyed and, for once, not even caring that he doesn’t know, “I’m just so happy.” His smile is broad and bright and it makes Tim laugh with joy and hugs Martin again as Mads wraps his arms around them both, all trading affections, nuzzling and kissing and squeezing each other tight.

 

And even if the eggs are a little overcooked once they finally get to eating breakfast, they’re all too happy to care.

 

\---

 

 _Everything has changed,_ thinks Tim after a few days as he travels to the office from Martin’s flat. 

Really, he’s not wrong. 

So much is different - the dynamic of getting dressed, eating in the morning, loving chatter to start the day, the way he wakes up, even the way they go to the office. It’s like his life has made a complete 180 in such a short amount of time, and it’s a very welcome change.

Now, Tim gets up just a few minutes earlier than he used to, to snatch someone’s jacket and claim it as his own for the day, or he’ll run for a shower and take a shirt with him from one of his two wonderful boyfriends, so they can’t steal it back before he puts it on. When he eats, he eats actual food, not just random cereal bars lying around the office. Every morning, Martin’s flat is filled with sounds of laughter and teasing jokes thrown back and forth, and Tim’s loudest kind of laugh is so often heard that it’s really a marvel. Mads and Martin fit with him so perfectly. And oh, the way he wakes up! With soft kisses to his forehead and hands massaging patterns into his back and sides, it’s an amazing way to start the day, with so many affectionate gestures that it would be impossible for any of them to forget that they’re dearly loved. Even their daily commute becomes something more as Tim shyly puts one hand in Martin’s grip and the other in Mads’s large palms and swings their arms lightly, showing just how much he enjoys their time together down to the last second.

 

The world itself seems to be somehow brighter when they’re all together.

 

And yet, even though so many things are so very different, the basics are all still there despite what has changed. Tim supposes that, while there are some changes, other things have simply intensified and strengthened thanks to their new relationship status.

For example, they still go to get lunch frequently, though now they do it as a trio of boyfriends and not just a trio of close friends wanting more. Plus, they still curl up all in one bed, whether it’s Tim’s after a long day of scrims or slinking into Mads’s room late at night after he’s already gone to sleep, or visiting Martin’s apartment as they do so often nowadays.

 _I like this change,_ Tim thinks one night as he’s snuggled up between Martin and Mads again, the three of them staying awake with no need for sleep, too busy watching a comedy and giggling to each other, occasionally giving playful kisses that develop into full-blown makeouts.

 

Tim’s fairly new to all this relationship stuff. After all, he’s less of a romantic interest to most and more of a helpful friend who always knows just what to say. He’s had a boyfriend before, when he was still in school, though they were terribly young and shy and didn’t do much of anything other than talk. It’s only with Mads and Martin that he’s been so valued as a loved one.

So when he’s snuggled between them one night, in boxers and one of Mads’s long-sleeved shirts - they’re much too large on him but he and Martin wear them anyway - legs entangled with those of his boyfriends, watching a show that doesn’t interest him at all, tipping his head up to look at Martin and Mads in turn, begging for a kiss, and Martin’s lips land on his, kissing chastely is all Tim knows to do. Just pressing their lips together, enjoying the closeness and the scent of Martin’s shower gel or Mads’s aftershave filling his thoughts, relaxing into what he’s given. It’s always nice, and always gentle, and Mads’s soft chuckles rumbling through his back make Tim giggle into the kiss, and it’s soft, and it’s sweet, and then - _oh._  

Martin lightly brushes his tongue along Tim’s lips, accompanied by a light wave of caution showing in his tentative actions and his thoughts. Tim gasps lightly at the new sensation, and Martin flicks his tongue between Tim’s lips, drawing an almost-inaudible whine, for just a brief second before withdrawing.

 

“Is- is this okay?” Martin asks nervously.

His answer comes in the form of Tim’s quickened breaths and the way Tim surges forward to kiss him again. This time, their tongues do more than just swipe into each other’s mouths; they mingle gently, Martin teasingly running his tongue along the edge of Tim’s teeth and encouraging Tim to play. 

It takes Tim’s breath away. 

The heat of it all, the creamy taste of the mint ice cream they’d just shared, the way Martin’s lashes flutter and brush against his own, the gentle caresses on his cheeks and his back and his hips. The soft touch of Mads’s lips against his neck and the feel of Martin’s hair under his fingertips. The light gasp for air they share when Tim finally has no choice but to pull away for more oxygen. The way they share breaths, chests heaving as their noses touch and their eyes begin to cloud with something more intense that Tim has ever experienced in the past.

 

He can feel the way Mads turns his head to look at them, nuzzling Tim’s cheek with his eyes on Martin. “You two looked like you enjoyed that,” Mads says in a teasing tone.

“Yeah,” Martin breathes, eyes locked onto Tim’s. “Yeah.” Martin unconsciously licks his lips, and Tim takes it as a signal to recapture Martin’s mouth with his own, this time more boldly, diving in and lapping up as much of the minty taste as he can get. He cups his hands around Martin’s face, then slides them back. Tim’s inexperience shows as he grabs at Martin’s hair much too roughly, twining his fingers in the blonde locks to try and get as much of Martin as he can, but the brusqueness doesn’t seem to bother Martin at all and instead Tim receives a soft moan that sounds like music to his ears. He’s a quick learner, so Tim quickly finds the perfect ways to nibble at Martin’s lips and wrap their tongues around each other for the most delicious sensation. Their kiss may have been stuttery at first, but by the time they’re sated, it’s smooth and sexy and oh so good.

When they part again, Martin’s face is beautifully flushed. His green eyes shine with an entranced look as he gazes upon Tim as though he’s found the most wonderful treasure in the world - make that two, as Martin looks next to Mads, whose slight grin spurs the ADC to draw him into a kiss as well.

 

Though Tim’s kiss with Martin was unsteady as well, the one that Martin shares with Mads is unsure in a different way. Tim and Martin had kissed in a wobbly sort of way, their rhythm building itself up like a young foal just learning to walk, slowly but surely and, once the knowledge was understood, with an easy and flowing gait. It was new to Tim and a new lover to Martin, meaning lots of curious exploration into what the other might or might not like. 

On the other hand, Tim watches enamouredly as Martin and Mads kiss like old tango partners trying to relearn their once-familiar dance, each going through what steps they remember and leaning into the other for what they have forgotten, quickly remembering what the past nearly shattered. 

Tim can tell when they get it perfectly right at last, because Martin’s face flushes even redder and he lets out a small whine while Mads groans and pulls Martin even closer. “Beautiful,” Tim comments offhandedly. Martin and Mads chuckle with hearts in their eyes as they separate and Martin pushes Tim towards Mads, who easily receives him in open, strong arms.

 

“Your turn, _puttemus,”_ Mads croons softly as he cups Tim’s face in a hand, leaning in and kissing the tip of Tim’s nose. Tim giggles in response, only barely suppressing the urge to hide his face in his hands and the large sleeves that hang over them. He pulls Mads down for a deep kiss, indulging in Mads’s woodsy scent completely enveloping him with traces of Martin peeking through, leaving nothing on his mind other than his boyfriends. And Mads kisses with tongue much the same way that he kissed without it - slow, languidly, almost as though he’s taking careful note of every last detail and will remember it for years to come, gently laving his tongue against Tim’s and then mapping out every inch of Tim’s mouth. Mads seems to know exactly where to touch and what to suck at almost magically, and Tim wonders for a brief second if Mads is a mindreader too, dismissing the thought in favour of not thinking at all. The warm, wet sensation in his mouth is more than enough to distract him. 

Once they’ve been kissing for a while, Tim’s senses flooded with the taste of sweet icecream and the feeling of Mads’s rough tongue rubbing against his, Mads retreats his tongue, letting Tim lap along Mads’s lips and lick his way to the source of a new strawberry flavour that provides a mellow contrast to Martin’s sharp mint. Both tastes are rapidly becoming an addiction for Tim. With every second that their kiss draws on, Tim can feel himself becoming more needy for air, and yet he doesn’t want to stop. Tastes and touches and arms around his waist and little nips behind his ear leave Tim in a happy, soothed haze, without a care in the world, barely even for oxygen. Eventually, though, Mads breaks away for breath and Tim gives a dopey grin. In fact, he’s so relaxed that his eyes slip shut without him even meaning to drift off. 

“Tired, _sötnis?”_ asks Martin with a tiny kiss to Tim’s cheek. The answer he gets is a soft hum, Tim already drifting off in a sleepy cloud of his own thoughts blended with the ones of those he loves as they lay him down. 

 

Tim falls asleep too soon to consciously register the plentiful kisses peppered all over his face by both Mads and Martin.

Though he may not be awake to sense them, his lips curl up into a smile anyway.

 

\---

 

As nice as things are - and yes, they truly are ‘sooooooo nice,’ according to one of Tim’s sleepy murmurs about Martin and Mads - there always comes some sort of trouble with the overwhelming happiness. Yet another lesson taught to Tim by his grandmother, perhaps one of a scant few that he takes seriously.

As great as things are, there will come a day when things aren’t nearly so great.

 

He hopes it’s not today, and he hopes it’s not tomorrow, and he hopes and hopes because Martin looks so pretty when he’s smiling and Mads’s grin makes Tim feel all warm and fuzzy inside and really, he just wants them to be happy forever. But he knows it can’t be all paradise for them. Something will happen.

He can feel it.

 

When Tim wakes up one morning, he feels a rush of something dark pour through him. _Just a nightmare,_ he thinks, praying that the vision he’d seen in his sleep of Martin surrounded by knives and covered in blood was just a random, useless, non-prophetic dream… but as his day continues, that sense of dread mounts. 

He’s jumpy and jittery, and when he gets suddenly ganked in lane during scrims, he practically throws his mouse out of sheer shock. Both Mads and Martin, worried for their little boyfriend, affectionately nudge his knees with theirs as he stares at a grey screen. Later in the day, during a soloQ block that replaces cancelled midday scrims, Tim does the exact same thing again except he actually throws his mouse against the wall - thankfully only lightly - when Nocturne dives at him.

“Are you okay, Tim?” Mads asks gently, sparing a few glances over while he farms camps in a different match.

“F-fine,” answers Tim, but it’s obvious to everyone in the office that Tim is terribly tense.

Even Youngbuck notices and tells him to go rest for the remainder of the day after scrims are over, and so despite the fact that Tim usually stays at the office after scrims, tending to go home much later than Martin or Mads, today he tags along on their return commute, knee bouncing anxiously the entire time.

 

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Gently, Mads’s hand rubs along Tim’s stiff shoulders, massaging into certain spots of muscle that help Tim relax his shoulders, at least, though nothing can stop his mind from jumping from one horrifying scenario to another.

“Fine,” says Tim again, “I’m fine, just- just have a bad feeling about something. I can’t explain it.”

Martin sidles closer to where Tim and Mads are sitting, still gripping the overhead bar but now close enough to ruffle Tim’s hair soothingly. “It’ll be okay,” he says softly, “we’ll be okay,” and though that reassurance isn’t much, it’s something.

“I know,” Tim mumbles. “Thanks.” He does his best to breathe deeply, clutching Mads’s other hand with white knuckles, and wait out the ride home.

 

Once there, it’s easier to let go of the fear and stress, or at least to keep it from taking over his thoughts, because Mads and Martin are both able and willing to help in whatever ways possible, and though they may not understand Tim’s abilities perfectly, they do understand how to use the extra medium of communication for help and aid in rough times. 

As soon as they step in the door, Mads reaches under his shirt and pulls off his necklace. Without realising why, Tim imitates Mads and also removes his, and Martin takes both of their pendants, the silver contrasting beautifully with dark leather, and heads down a hallway to the bedroom. They’re always sure to put their jewellery away properly lest they lose it.

 

By now, Tim and Mads have established their habits and made a home alongside Martin, paying their share of the rent, moving their clothing in next to Martin’s FNC t-shirts and sweatpants, and generally settling into Martin’s existing rhythms in a way that binds them all together, a soft melody and bassline weaving in to become a loving song. They’re happy together, and they know how to reassure each other.

 

Tim only realises that Mads and Martin have taken off their necklaces so soon in an attempt to cheer him up when they swaddle him in blankets on the sofa and rest their heads against his, both broadcasting loud thoughts of ‘We’re in this together’ and ‘You mean so much to me’ and ‘It will be okay, I promise’ into Tim’s head. He’s still nervous and on-edge, of course, but the thought helps, and his dread slowly drains away. The gentle kisses to his lips and his cheeks and his nose and his forehead help, too.

“Thank you,” Tim murmurs softly, and even though it’s quiet, their faces are all so close together that his words are heard clearly. 

“Anytime,” Martin responds with a smile. He kisses Tim sweetly, then hugs him tightly again and ruffles his hair. “I’ll get some leftovers heated up for dinner,” says Martin with a lightness to his voice that lifts Tim’s spirits a bit more, and Martin begins to stand up. “A cozy night in is just what we need, right?”

Tim smiles, and Mads kisses the corner of his lips. “Yes,” says Tim.

“Do you want help?” asks Mads, already shifting forward to join Martin, who is now heading to the kitchen.

“No, I’ll be fine,” Martin responds, and Tim voices his agreement as well. “You just cuddle Tim,” Martin continues, “and I’ll get dinner ready.” Tim blushes, but Mads puts both arms around his chest and hugs him tight, so he leans against Mads’s chest and buries his face in the blankets around him.

 

Tim feels warm and cared for, so warm and loved that, for a second, he almost forgets why he was ever worried in the first place. After all, their little piece of heaven together hasn’t been tarnished at all, yet, and the way Mads is petting his hair is soft and soothing and Tim could honestly fall asleep right there, held close by his burly and muscular boyfriend, if it weren’t for the fact that he would miss his other, slim, pretty boyfriend. He’s at ease, and for the first time all day he feels like the dreadfulness is completely gone. Not a trace of terror is left.

And then a crash echoes through Martin’s flat from the kitchen, and Tim’s happy fantasy comes crashing down. 

 

“T-T-Tim?” Martin calls loudly, shakily, voice sounding strained to the brink. “Can you c-come here? Quickly, please, I- quickly.” Tim was already on his way and disentangling himself from blankets as soon as the crashing sound hit his ears alongside a powerful wave of freezing fear and a pummeling mental storm, both so strong that they practically swamp him.

He’s in the kitchen with Mads by his side in a matter of seconds, quickly taking stock of what went down. There’s a broken plate on the floor, with Martin at the impact’s epicentre, surrounded by bits of pottery, and there’s a noticeable gash on Martin’s hand that runs along his finger, deep enough to be bleeding quite a bit already, just moments after injury. Tim resigns himself to sticking with looking at physical problems for the time being - if Martin’s emotions are so intense that the waves have been so powerful as to overtake Tim even at a distance, then the situation doesn’t offer him enough time to take a deeper look into the weather inside Martin’s mindscape since Martin is in dire physical danger, so Tim sets that issue aside for the time being. Instead, he falls carefully to his knees at Martin’s side and tells Mads to bring the first aid kit to address the greatest of their worries. As for Martin himself, well… 

He’s shaking. 

He’s trembling, curled into a protective ball around his hands, unable to tear his eyes from the blood and the cut on his hand, and Tim knows that he absolutely needs to get Martin out of the area as quickly as possible before Martin ends up hurting himself, whether accidentally, or- or-

 

_The storm is strong already. The sight of all the sharp shards around Martin threatens to build the tempest into something that might overpower all Tim’s efforts when it comes to Martin’s destructive habits._

 

“Martin?” says Tim cautiously, gently resting a hand on Martin’s shoulder and trying to ease his way into the ADC’s blood-frenzied mind. “Martin, _zlatček,_ can you hear me?”

 

No answer.

 

“Martin, honey, let’s- let’s go somewhere else for a bit, okay?” This time Tim takes Martin by the hand and attempts to lift him to his feet, but Martin remains fixed to the spot, a tight ball of terrified human, despite Tim’s efforts.

Thankfully, they’re not alone.

Mads rushes into the room, frazzled and clearly shaken, holding Tim’s first aid kit in his hands and cautiously brushing aside porcelain shards to kneel at Martin’s side, pushing the kit into Tim’s hands and frantically asking, “What can I do to help?”

“Can you pick him up?” Tim asks, all business when it comes to saving Martin from his own mind. “I think he’s too far gone to walk right now and we need to move him somewhere else, away from- you know.” He gestures at the sharp bits of pottery on the floor around them. Cautiously, Mads leans towards Martin and wraps his arms around the shivering Swede, gently pulling him away from the mess of broken porcelain and towards Mads and Tim’s worried faces, and Mads kisses Martin’s forehead tenderly as he scoops the shellshocked boy up into a bridal-style carry.

 

Mads gets no reaction from Martin other than a shuddering breath. Martin’s eyes remain wide open, fixed on blank space as though he’s completely out of it, and he doesn’t even instinctively wrap his arms around Mads’s neck when he’s lifted into the air, instead remaining as tightly curled as possible. Blood is slowly dripping down his finger, pooling in his palms.

“Where should we go?” Mads asks in a worried air but also one of forced calm, full of action and recognising the need to move quickly without their actions being affected adversely by fear or nerves.

“Bedroom,” Tim replies, already rooting around the kitchen cabinets for a dustpan to gather up the plate shards. Mads carries Martin away to their bed, blue eyes worriedly watching Martin’s face as the ADC lies cradled in his arms while Tim gingerly picks up the largest of the plate fragments. 

 

Before he can truly clean up the slightly-bloody mess, a small voice echoes from down the hall.

“T-Tim?” Martin sniffles. 

When Tim looks over to where Mads stands with Martin curled against his chest, he’s met with an eerily direct gaze from Martin, almost as though the ADC had been looking right through Mads like he wasn’t even there. 

“Tim, I- _help,”_ Martin whimpers, a look on his face as though he’s in horrible pain and on the verge of tears. His silence has changed. Tim notices right away how Martin’s blank stare has evolved into one that begs and pleads for any sort of assistance, screaming for someone to come to his aid, and how Martin reaches out a quavering hand towards him over Mads’s shoulder. Mads almost turns around and brings Martin back to Tim, but Tim already knows what he must do.

 

“I’m coming, Martin,” Tim says gently, and he abandons his task of clean-up in favour of grabbing the first-aid kit with a sense of urgency, running to Martin’s side once more. Tim keeps pace with Mads, watching how Martin’s fearful eyes flicker between their faces, and when Mads sets Martin down on their shared, soft, fluffy bed that they all have so many fond memories in already, Tim immediately sits in Martin’s lap the way he had when he’d first bandaged Martin up - though now in a much more intimate way, sitting pretty on Martin’s upper thighs instead of the ADC’s knees like before. “It’s going to be okay, _ljubček,”_ Tim croons, taking Martin’s wounded finger into both of his hands. Behind Martin sits Mads, letting Martin lean back against his broad chest and keeping a strong arm around his waist as Martin’s eyes remain fixed, trance-like, to Tim in his lap.

 

“Sharp…” murmurs Martin, “I need… something… sharp. Please…”

His eyes, though still on Tim, now seem to see nothing. Whatever lucidity they had gained in the past few moments is gone.

“Razor,” Martin says as though he’s not in control of his own body, speaking like he’s just a shell, and perhaps he is, because he tries to stand up not realising that he’s stuck in place by Tim’s weight on his legs and Mads’s arms around his torso. He looks around bewilderedly, as though he doesn’t understand where he is or what’s happening or why he can’t get up.

Tim fears that this may be his worst relapse yet.

“K-kn-knife?” Martin asks next. He tugs at Tim’s wrist like a child asking for candy, eyes looking plaintively up, pleading for a weapon of any kind.

Tim naturally says, “No,” with a solid and steadfast voice, and he grabs the first-aid kit, popping it open to pull out some rolls of bandages for the cut that runs along Martin’s finger and measuring out the right length before trying to snip the bandage roll to the proper length.

 

Mindlessly, Tim reaches for the scissors to make the cut.

With hands that move like lightning, Martin does too.

 

And his laser-focused actions result in him snatching away the small, silver, needle-sharp scissors before Tim can stop him.

 

“MARTIN, NO!” Tim screams, trying to take them back with the least amount of damage possible to both him and Martin, but he’s unable to tear them out of Martin’s hands in time. Martin raises the scissors, still entranced, and is right about to plunge them into his arm when Mads grabs both of his forearms and raises them above his head, holding his wrists to each other with a powerful strength and preventing any motion at all.

“No,” begins Martin, quickly falling into senseless babbling, “no no no no, please, no, I need it, please, I _need,_ please…!” He begins to writhe against Mads, thrashing and trying to free himself, tossing Tim back and forth with every violent twist of his hips, and it’s all Tim can do to hold Martin’s face still and kiss him to ensure their foreheads stay close enough for long enough that he can get into Martin’s head.

 

_A vicious, vengeful sea._

_Its waves are tumultuous and almost tsunami-like, horrifying, the roughest seas that Tim has seen yet, and, by the fact that Martin is nowhere to be seen, not at the slight divots that are wind-smoothed yet still mark the graves or the blanket surrounded by twinflower and daisies and carnations or even out on the pier from both Mads’s and Martin’s mindscapes, Martin is probably out there in the storm, adrift on a darkening ocean. Tim rushes towards the pier and down its length before it’s too late._

 

Martin, _he wants to call over the black water, but he knows that not a word would come from his mouth if he did. Instead, he looks around frantically, spotting a few areas of the relatively-new pier that have broken off into the ocean._

_Damn it. As if Martin caught in the tumult wasn’t bad enough, now there’s hazards being tossed around by the waters. Sodden wood can be as rough and painful and injurious as rock, with one key difference - it’s not always dense enough to sink, and can end up drifting in the water at perfect treacherous height to bash one’s legs into shark-bait in the swirling current. Like the waves themselves weren’t already enough to kill._

_Some of the railing is damaged as well, hanging loose and rickety, barely still attached to the pier by only a few screws, and one piece with a rope pulling at it seems ready to split in two. The rope leads out into the sea, yanked about by the ocean’s fury on whatever is at the end of the rope. Tim doesn’t think too much of it at first, still scanning the oceans for wherever Martin may be, but then he gets to wondering..._

 

_A rope…_

_A rope._

_The only rope in Martin’s mindscape, the only one affixed to the pier, is the one that Tim remembers pulling Martin in with before, the one attached to…_

_The lifebelt._

 

 _Far in the distance, so far that the bright-orange lifebelt is barely visible even though it was once the only colourful thing in a world of drab pastels, is the end of the rope, with a pale speck of blonde hair clinging to it for dear life. Unfortunately, this time the seas are too rough for even Tim to jump in. He has no idea what will happen if he gets hurt or drowns in someone else’s mindscape, so Tim is left pacing, worrying, wondering_ What can I do when he’s so in danger?

_Then, the wood holding the rope creaks in protest at a particularly rough squall, and Tim grabs it, panicking. It terrifyingly snaps under even just his light touch, leaving him scrambling to grab the rope and hold on for dear life, and then, suddenly, he gets it; he knows exactly what he must do to help._

_Reel Martin in._

 

_Tim pulls armful after armful of wet rope from the sea, slopping it onto the ground in spools as he reaches for more and more, determined to get Martin back. He’s not particularly strong, so his muscles are aching and his arms scream in protest with each draw against the tides’ will, each tug like a punch thrown in his fight against the ocean within Martin’s mind, but there’s nothing like pure love to overpower a human’s limits. Adrenaline rushes through Tim and urges him on as he draws in metre upon metre of black-soaked rope, and eventually, Martin’s tear-soaked face is within sight. Poor Martin is clinging to the lifebelt like it’s all he has in the world, and when he sees Tim, Martin bursts into more tears, though these show promising signs of recovery - they run less opaque and less obsidian than the black seas around him. Soon enough, as Tim runs over to the shore so Martin can get his footing more easily, Martin runs to him and there is a trembling, gasping, coughing, shivering boy in his arms. His tears run clear, now. Tim kisses them gently away, cradling Martin’s head against his shoulder and rubbing his back, holding him tightly and letting Martin know that he will never ever truly be lost at sea again, that Tim will always save him, no matter how rough the seas._

 

_Martin cries so much, but the storm’s anger begins to weaken, and as Tim looks skyward, a slim ray of sunlight blooms into a small patch of clear skies, then the other overcast skies thin out, revealing a softly shining rainbow that takes their breaths away as they curl up together on the same sun-bleached towel from before._

_Softly, Tim kisses Martin through the tears and strokes his hair. Martin sniffles, pressing himself close against Tim’s chest, and he kisses back with desperation and gratefulness._

_Safe at last._

 

“T-Tim,” gasps Martin in a soft breath when Tim finally pulls away from holding Martin tight. Mads quickly slips the scissors out of Martin’s loosened grasp, hiding them away behind a bedside lamp. “Tim,” Martin says again, and he leans forward, Mads letting go of his wrists to let him draw Tim into a tight and grateful hug, so tight that it almost feels more like clinging to a lifeline rather than a simple embrace. Only reluctantly does Martin loosen his grip, keeping his arms around Tim’s body and saying Mads’s name in the same uncertain way he’d said Tim’s, then turning to Mads, hugging his jungler close as well and letting soft sobs pour out. He crawls into Mads’s lap. With a hand held out to Tim, he beckons his other boyfriend close, and both of them wrap arms around Martin, holding him gently like a piece of precious seaglass the same colour as his emerald eyes, still filled with tears. “I’m sorry,” Martin says at last, quietly.

 

“It’s okay,” Tim replies easily, “you’re welcome.” 

“Of course,” Mads says gently, caressing Martin’s back and hips with large, soothing hands. “It’s completely okay. We’re here for you, always.”

Cautiously this time, Tim picks up the bandages again and tears them to the proper length with his hands, then wraps the bandage around the long gash in Martin’s finger, taping it neatly and kissing it better when he’s done so as to elicit a soft giggle from Martin despite the terribly rough circumstances they’d just been through. 

 

“T-thank you,” Martin sniffles, and then, once more, “Sorry.” Tim crawls slightly forward to embrace Martin as his tears intensify, pouring down his face as he tries in vain to wipe them all away, and Mads wraps him up in a hug as well so that they’re both holding their crying boyfriend protectively. “I’m sorry,” Martin continues despite their crooning sounds, “I’m such a mess, I’m sorry.”

Softly, Tim hushes him, petting Martin’s hair and kissing his temple. “It’s okay, darling, it’s okay,” he soothes, letting Martin dry his face on Tim’s well-worn t-shirt.

As gently as he can, he cradles Martin’s head close to his own and reaches to Martin’s mind again, looking for the reason behind Martin’s sudden breakdown; he knows it’s probably something to do with blood as a trigger, but he wants to be completely sure that he can address all roots of the problem.

 

When he finds the collection of thoughts and bad memories that spurred Martin into mania, Tim is suddenly very glad that he double-checked.

More than just the sanguine liquid setting Martin off, there’s also so many pictures of sharp objects whirling around, the porcelain plate’s edges turning into knives and razors and needles in Martin’s head, and there’s one stand-out memory that catches on Tim’s mind like a rough-edged crack in a smooth shield.

 

_Of course it’s Caps._

_There’s a plate on the floor, the exact same type of plate that Mads has on the kitchen tiles, shattered in his mindscape kitchen, and it’s broken into the same-shaped pieces with a slight trail of blood on one of the shards. Martin sits quaking next to the wreckage again._

_A saviour comes for him, but… but it’s not Tim, with soft grey eyes and a worried look on his face._

_It’s Caps, facepalming with a giggle and teasing Martin for dropping the plate, not even noticing the distress in Martin’s expression. “You’re so clumsy,” Caps chides, and a rush of shame floods through Martin in the memory._

_He begins to apologise frantically, only to be told that he apologises too much, and to shut up, words accompanied by a kiss that seems sloppy and uncaring. Caps finishes the bandaging not with medical tape but with a knot that’s too tight and improperly done, but Martin doesn’t say anything about how it’s pinching off his circulation, too dazed by the sight of blood, so Caps just smiles up at him with a cheery grin. “All better!” he chirps._

_“Thank you,” Martin says softly, not sure if he means it. Then, Caps pulls him away to something new, not even noticing how Martin’s breathing is quick and his eyes are unnaturally wide._

 

“Oh, Martin,” Tim croons, sadness infiltrating his tone, “it’s okay, _ljubček,”_ and Tim and Mads both cradle Martin closer, hugging and kissing and tracing patterns of hearts all over him. “It’s not your fault, sometimes accidents happen and sometimes people don’t notice when you really need help.” Gently, Tim massages Martin’s back as he heaves out more sobs. “I’m glad you asked me for help today,” Tim murmurs, “and I’m glad you asked me for help last time as well. And I hope you won’t hesitate to ask us in the future.”

 

Quietly, Martin sobs and clutches Tim close.

“We’re here for you, _zlatček,”_ says Tim softly.

“Yes, _smukke,_ we’re here for you as long as you’ll have us,” Mads says as a follow-up.

 

Martin tucks his head under their chins. “Thank you,” he says through tiny, shaky breaths, “thank you.”

 

\---

 

 _One crisis down, one to go,_ thinks Tim to himself on the quiet morning after. Both he and Mads are holding Martin tight between them, gently petting his soft hair and peppering his skin with kisses, waking him up slowly and softly and making sure he knows he’s dearly beloved. They must be doing something right, because Martin wakes up with fluttering lashes, a smile like the sun and a little giggle that makes their hearts melt. 

“Good morning,” he says, voice rough with tears and sleep, and his boyfriends echo it back. 

“Feeling better?” asks Mads, and Martin nods.

“Much better. Thank you so much, both of you.”

“Anything to help you,” says Tim. Martin blushes pink and giggles more, embarrassed, but enjoying the plentiful attention, and he hugs them both close, drawing them into kisses full of morning-breath and love. 

 

But while Martin may be reassured and solidified in their love, able to know for certain that he is supported by both of his boyfriends and that there are people he can always rely on all the time, Mads is less certain. It seems to Tim that Mads still tries to hide himself away at the office whenever another one of his silent spells comes on. Periodically his mental noise quiets into faint humming that Mads conceals by simply playing soloQ with music on until the sounds infiltrate his own mind, and Mads is clever enough to realise that, as long as he’s listening to music loud enough, Tim can’t tell if he’s humming or not. It’s scary and worrying to Tim, especially when he can’t tell what’s going on. Martin, too, tries to watch out for Mads in his own way, persistently asking if Mads wants anything, only to be rebuffed by the jungler, who insists repetitively that he’s fine, just deep in thought, when in reality Mads is often deep in the lack of thought. _All will sort itself out,_ Tim knows, and he’s all too aware that something must soon arise.

He’s soon proven to be correct once more.

 

\---

 

Tim is off at Fnatic’s offices when the call comes in. To Tim’s defense, Martin’s own computers aren’t particularly good for playing League at the moment, since one of them is an old laptop that has been retired to simple movie-watching and the other is currently crippled, a broken stick of RAM contributing to painful lag that forces Tim to stay at the office if he wants to play his late-night soloQ. And his soloQ practice is important to him - how else would he spend his nights? Of course he hangs out with Martin and Mads, but he’s not so attached to their nightly TV sessions that he’d abandon his soloQ. It’s very important to him. Besides, he gets plenty of their attention even if he comes home a bit later than they do, so he much prefers his own system of splitting time between soloQ and sweethearts.

 

However, there are times when his late-working habits come around to bite him.

Like now.

 

His phone goes off in the middle of a nice soloQ game where he’s been trapped with Perkz and Mihael inting on Sivir-Yuumi, so since he really has to hard-carry this game, he almost ignores it, merely shooting the device a disinterested glance, but then he sees the icon - a cute picture of Martin making a face with a cat filter on - and picks up the phone. “Hey Martin,” Tim chirps, all too happy to AFK and let his team suffer. As his Corki sits in the fountain and gets showered with ? pings from Mihael, he leans back in his chair with a smile on his face.

“Tim?” questions Martin nervously, sounding rather rattled.

Tim is suddenly much more alert. “Yeah, it’s me. What’s up?”

 

“It’s Mads,” Martin says quickly. 

_Shit._

“I don’t- he’s unresponsive, I checked his pulse and it’s fine but he acts like he can barely hear me and I can’t get him to the bed on my own and I have no idea how to take care of him, are you busy right now?”

As he always does when he panics, Martin is rambling, and Tim lets the sound of one of his boyfriends’ voices fill his ears as he grabs shoes and keys. “It’s okay, Martin,” he says slowly and steadily, “this just happens sometimes, like it did on our first night together.” On the other end of the line, Martin audibly takes a deep breath. “Do you know what happened before that?”  


Martin stutters out an apology and a negative reply, and Tim can feel his heart sink into his stomach. Right now, he’s essentially stranded without any information about what’s going on other than that Mads is having issues and Martin is rapidly growing more and more anxious, blabbering on about how Mads is cocooned in blankets on the sofa. There is no way for Tim to just reach through airspace and read Mads or Martin’s mind; they’re too far away right now, so

he dashes out of the door and to the metro, hopping on the line to Martin’s flat that he’s memorised the number of by now. Once he gets into the train and finds a seat, he steps into his own mindscape to distract himself from the situation at hand.

 

_The wind rushes through linden trees in a forest he’d originally explored just outside his hometown, and Tim settles down onto a plain rock in the middle of the grove, picking up some spare litter that had accumulated in the glen and packing it away in a small bag. Little bits of trash always seem to pop up. Lawn maintenance is half the reason he even comes here any more._

Breathe deeply, _Tim thinks, preparing himself for what’s to come,_ we can’t afford to panic. Surely from here… _Perhaps his mental connection to Mads and Martin will allow him to reach them through mindscapes despite the physical distance. It’s worth a try, so Tim sets down his bag against the rock and prepares to run through the woods seeking a glimpse of a pier or a small, quaint house._

_Then, like a shot of lightning, he’s off._

 

_Tim wouldn’t say he’s the fastest of runners, but when he’s in his mind, he finds that the startling speed of his younger self - or maybe not so startling, considering he was always slim and able to dash at breakneck speeds - has stayed with him. And anyway, he knows this forest like the back of his hand. Every root, every plant, every fern and wildflower and pebble is ingrained in his memory. He sculpted this forest from the ground up, consciously, from the day he learned he could read minds, and then unconsciously as he let the wildflowers bloom, each variety marking something important in his life._

_Red carnations litter the forest floor, dropping bright petals that create a soft carpet under his feet as he runs, shielding him from rough pebbles and broken rock. As he keeps on going, he darts over gnarled roots and vines, catching glimpses of yellow lion’s tooth somewhere in forests that are a little bit in the past and then bright orange pimpernel in the new forests, the five petals clearly representing five players. He runs farther and faster, spotting pale pink twinflower out of the corners of his eyes and Marguerite daisies under foot._

_Eventually his world starts to feel a little misty. Foggy. Hazy. There’s a scent like the sea in the air, a light smell of salt and Mads and Martin that urges Tim on faster and faster until the woods are blurring by._

I’m close, _Tim wants to shout with excitement, but he keeps up his pace and soon the haziness fades._ I’m here! _he wants to scream but nothing other than pebbly forest floor appears under his feet. Even though he sees more and more twinflower and Marguerite daisies with every step, he can’t help but feel that he’s getting nowhere near the beaches in Martin and Mads’s minds._

_Then, he breaks through the fogginess entirely, into a small grove of lindens with a smooth, plain rock in the middle and a satchel of litter at its side._

 

Damn.

 

_Tim sits down on the rock and sinks his head into his hands._

 

There’s little time for him to lament his powerless state, powerless thanks to a lack of information and inability to simply mindread for all he needs to know, so he just darts out of the train and runs off as soon as the line stops at the station closest to Martin’s flat.

He’s off like a bolt of lightning again.

This time, he gets to where he’s going.

 

“Martin!” gasps Tim, heaving for breath as he bursts through the doorway. “Martin, Mads, I’m here.”

“TIM!” shrieks Martin, ceasing his pacing and running to hug Tim tightly, then immediately dragging him by the hand to where Mads rests on the sofa, motionless but for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. “Tim, Tim, Tim, I don’t know what to do,” he whines, panicking. Tim rests a soothing hand on Martin’s to prevent a double-breakdown of both him and Mads before turning to make a clearer diagnosis. 

Mads’s eyes are distant and his breathing is shallow, almost silent, like he’s barely living at all, so Tim knows this is probably the worst kind of episode, and he along with Martin quickly lifts Mads to his feet, supporting him as much as they can. They’re both very thankful when natural walking instincts kick in and all they have to do is lead him to the bed, where he slumps down. They gently lay him in a position they can both cuddle him from and watch as his eyes slip shut. Tim hopes he’s not falling into another stupor that causes him to want to sleep forever.

 

Martin quickly tosses his necklace onto the jewellery tray on the bedside table and takes the far side of the bed, hugging Mads from behind and keeping him from curling up into a ball. Once he’s pressed a gentle kiss to Mads’s cheek and receives no response yet again, Martin looks then to Tim for instructions or help, though he receives little, since Tim is already laser-focused on trying to discern Mads’s current communication capabilities.

Tim lays down on the bed and wriggles his way into Mads’s arms, wrapping the jungler’s limbs around him and gently stroking Mads’s cheek, kissing the sleeping beauty on the nose and chastely on the lips while also slipping off their necklaces and setting them next to Martin’s. He does his best to not tangle the silver and gold chains around the leather string, but he has other things on his mind as well, so he mostly just drops the pendants down and refocuses on Mads. _“Močnček,_ can you hear me?” Tim asks Mads cautiously. 

Receiving silence yet again, he presses his forehead to Mads’s and runs a hand through his hair.

 

_Inside Mads’s head, the room is back, though the padding still seems thin in most places except for around any exits. The windows are blocked off and the door is a lump of white at this point, and Tim grabs hold of Mads, who had been pacing from wall to wall of the asylum-like room. Tim roughly pulls him to one side and forces him to sit and calm down._

_“Sorry,” says mind-Mads, shaking slightly and cupping his hands around an object gingerly, as though it is an injured bird or something else precious to him, “I’ve just- sorry.” He holds up a small black speaker with a wire torn loose and elecric sparks flashing off of it every few seconds, his eyes pained and sorrowful, and Tim finally understands why._

_He’s accidentally broken the gift Tim and Martin gave to him for when Mads and Martin are home and Mads needs more noise to prevent a breakdown like this._

_“Sorry, I didn’t mean to, I should have been more careful, I- sorry,” Mads says again, beginning to repeat himself nonsensically, and Tim kisses him to shut him up. “I’m sorry,” Mads reiterates. Tim makes a face, trying to communicate that Mads doesn’t need to apologise so much, and crawls into his lap, hugging him around the neck in an attempt to show that he’s forgiven, but Mads doesn’t return the hug and instead keeps his hands carefully cupped around the remains of his speaker as if to show he still cares for the gift despite its useless state. A blend of guilt and sorrow and fear mingle in Mads’s emotions. It’s already clear to Tim that the initial shock of breaking something that had been gifted to him is what had sent Mads careening into this spell, all rather plain and simple, but one thing still confuses Tim._

_Why is he afraid?_

 

_What is he afraid of? Who does he fear? Is he worried about Tim or Martin being mad because he broke the speaker? Why won’t he let its broken remains go?_

_As if in response to his unvoiced questions, a small picture frame materialises in Mads’s hands next to the speaker’s corpse and he gives the picture to Tim shyly. “I’ve got a lot on my mind right now,” Mads says with a soft smile, and Tim grins at the jungler’s joke about the frames scattered throughout the room coupled with drifting flowers. Then Tim leans against Mads’s chest and watches the memory in the frame move._

 

_It’s the same situation, really. A broken speaker, some sadness… Mads didn’t have these silence attacks back then, so it’s more of a typical disappointment at breaking a gift, but Caps says he’ll buy another one for Mads so there’s little fear or apprehension at first. The memory fast-forwards through several days, then a week, then three weeks, then a month. Still no speaker for Mads. He isn’t afraid of the silence yet, but this memory seems to come from right around when Mads had just started to feel the pressure that quietness can exert upon the mind, and that pressure is starting to scare him. Finally Mads skips going to the gym one day to find a decent speaker and brings one home successfully, but the fear of never getting one despite being frequently told not to worry about it is now permanently there. The fear of being left without a way to cope is now present. Perhaps the worst part is that Mads blames himself for breaking it in the first place._

_Tim almost wants to point a cruel finger at Caps, but he can’t. The other mid-laner is notoriously forgetful; he wouldn’t have neglected Mads or Martin on purpose, but he’s certainly hurt them with his inability to be observant and careful, and for that Tim is dearly pained. These problems of Mads’s and Martin’s are ultimately caused and intensified by too many relationships with people who were ultimately just kids themselves._

 

_Not enough maturity to keep each other from getting hurt._

 

 _Tim turns to Mads in Mads’s mind-house and hugs him tight._ Not your fault, _he wants to say,_ none of you, _but he cannot speak; only Mads has the power of mental speech._

 

_He settles for thinking it._

_Not their faults._

 

_Mads hugs him back, tightly, one hand still clenched around the sparking speaker - much to Tim’s alarm - and Tim gently unfurls Mads’s fingers from around the malfunctioning electronics, setting the speaker on the ground alongside a bouquet of red, pink, and white. Then, he draws Mads into a hug again, and this time, Mads embraces him fully._

 

Tim leans forward to kiss Mads both mentally and physically, and slowly, Mads blinks his eyes open and breathes a deep breath that seems to draw the painful silence out of his lungs like a cleansing wind sweeping away clouds of soot. “Mads,” says Martin softly, already noticing the difference and rolling Mads onto his back for more optimal kissing and diving for Mads’s lips, “oh, I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you…” Martin kisses frantically, desperately trying to get enough of his boyfriend and apologise for the wrongdoing of not knowing what to do, and when he’s done, Tim leans in for a few short kisses of his own. Through it all, Mads slowly seems to come back to life. By the time he’s kissing Tim, there’s a slight smile on his face and it warms Tim’s heart to see him happy again.

 

“Doing alright?” Tim asks kindly.

“Y-yes,” replies Mads in a deep, gravelly voice, as though he’s been silent for much of the day. “I… Thanks.”

“No problem,” says Tim easily, kissing Mads again with a smile. He giggles when Mads pulls him closer, until he’s practically lying atop Mads, next to Martin who lies on the other half of their broad-chested boyfriend, also smiling and hugging them both tight. 

Mads goes pink and nestles his face in between theirs, trying to hide his blush in their necks, but Martin and Tim are already giggling and kissing his cheeks. They’re both eager to make Mads laugh before they all fall asleep, piled up together. And Tim does indeed succeed - though only with the growling of his stomach, which sends all three of them into raucous giggles as suddenly Tim becomes the object of their attentions.

 

Mads scoops Tim up and bustles them off to the kitchen, throwing Tim over his shoulder and proving just how quickly a bit of love can heal him up, carrying Tim down the hall with Martin following along to boop Tim’s nose while Tim lightly thumps Mads’s back in protest. When they reach the kitchen, though, Tim is set gently down on the countertop while Mads goes to make a quick meal for them all. Tim has just realised that Mads and Martin also haven’t eaten in a while, since they usually just grab a bite on the way home rather than get dinner without Tim, so he sits patiently on the counter, Martin holding his hand, while Mads cooks.

When the food is done, Martin and Tim set the table, Tim eagerly basking in the radiating domestic thoughts and enjoying his dinner with them as much as he can, even going so far as to not only steal bits of food from each of them but also, once Martin holds out his fork, letting them feed him.

“Ahhhhn,” Martin hums, opening his mouth and mimicking what Tim should do. Tim just giggles at first, but he leans in and eats off of Martin’s fork, giggling when Martin giggles too. Emotions of happiness and pride and love echo through Tim’s head from seemingly every mind in the room as Mads watches them fondly, and they turn to feed him bits of food as he blushes embarrassedly. 

 

As soon as their meal is over, they’re all more than eager to get back into bed and cuddle up into a pile, bellies full of warm food and hearts happy. Dishes are lain haphazardly in the sink, and then all three are tugging each other along to the bedroom where they collapse into the sheets and snuggle around each other. The warmth is perfect under their thin blankets as they trade nuzzles and kisses and pettings and caresses, all centred around Mads, of course, and when he tries to continually repay them equally, Martin and Tim simply look at each other and communicate the perfect plan to overwhelm Mads with so much love and appreciation that he can never doubt the strength of their bond again.

 

The plan works wonders, as do the kisses involved, exactly according to what Martin had worked out and thought very loudly so that Tim couldn’t possibly miss a detail. First they hug him and cuddle him, being sure to murmur into his ears how safe he makes them feel, tracing patterns and swirls into his chest that make Mads shiver and giggle. Then, they kiss him deeply. Martin savours the dance of their tongues that he and Mads have only recently relearned, taking turns with Tim who enjoys memorising every detail of Mads’s mouth even without the flavour of strawberry ice cream urging him on. Finally - the crown jewel of Martin’s idea - they curl up to a now-sleepy Mads and whisper in his ears yet again.

 

“I like you,” Martin says softly. “I like you both. I like you so much. I like you so, so, so much,” he tells Mads, but the way his eyes flicker over to look at Tim, too, lets Tim know that the words apply to both of them, and Tim’s heart nearly somersaults with joy.

“And I like you, too,” Tim adds, his own contribution to the last phase of the plan. “I like you so much, both of you, more than anyone else ever before. I like you more than I’ve ever liked anyone,” he confesses, a hand over Mads’s heart and shy eyes unable to look up to Mads’s face.

But Mads takes care of that problem, tipping Tim’s chin up and greeting him with a gentle smile. “I like you too, Tim,” he murmurs with a kiss, “and I like you too, Martin. I like both of you. I like both of you a lot.” His grin is so soft, so warm and soothing, and Tim finds that his eyelids are already drooping with the weight of so much love, a weight as wonderful and comforting as that of a thick blanket in a harsh winter.

 

The world always seems soft and warm and soothing and pleasantly heavy when they’re all together. When Tim and Mads and Martin are all snuggled close in a bed, or when they’re all practicing before scrims, or when they go play Twisted Treeline together, or when they’re chatting on-stage. It sometimes seems like there’s hardly a problem in the world when they’re side by side, like nothing could threaten them at all.

 

 

But the past is dark and looming, like a storm off the seafront, and Tim's only hope is that he might love them through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only two more chapters to go!
> 
> puttemus (puh-teh-muhss) - Danish - pet name, literally translates to 'cuddle mouse'  
> sötnis (soeht-niss) - Swedish - sweetie, literally translates to 'sweet-nose'  
> zlatček (zlaht-check) - Slovenian - golden (nickname)  
> ljubček (lyuub-check) - Slovenian - my love, my darling  
> smukke (smook-eh) - Danish - sweet, beautiful  
> močnček (mo-chn-check) - Slovenian - strong (nickname)


	8. I like it when you sleep, for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim has soothed Mads and Martin through bouts of sleeplessness and pain time and time again.  
> Now it's his turn to struggle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title: I like it when you sleep, for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it, by the 1975  
> notes: final chapter! i had originally planned 9 chapters but the story arc involving Caps ended up falling through and i had severe writer's block while trying to write it, so we end at 8.  
> if you haven't read the newer version of chapter 7, i suggest going back and reading at least the last few paragraphs because those have been changed drastically so as not to point to a Caps-chapter.  
> smut towards the end of this chapter, though it's light and fluffy.
> 
> no TWs necessary for this chapter!

“Tim? Mads?” asks Martin shyly, one night while they’re comfortably squeezed together in Martin’s bed. 

It might normally be a tight fit, since Tim doubts most people care to share a bed with two others and not just one, but the closeness suits these three just fine as they enjoy the physical sensation of being with each other in a way that they can’t always indulge in, not at the office nor near the stage nor out in public. Quiet moments together are truly a thing to be savoured. Besides, their bodies pressed against each other as a physical comfort helps to make up for a slight mental discomfort that has quickly arisen.

 

Martin has been wearing his necklace again lately.

 

That’s not to say that Tim doesn’t like this, or that he wants Martin to take it off, or that it disrupts him, because it doesn't really. Martin is just using the wulfenite for its purpose, after all. But it does make him wonder and, perhaps, worry about what’s swirling in Martin’s head, and Tim can tell by the way that Mads looks at Martin sometimes - contemplatively, deep in thought as he plays with the ADC’s hair - that Mads feels a similar way. Any serious danger would be obvious enough, now that they spend so much time together with Mads, so there’s not much to fear. But Tim does sometimes catch himself unconsciously reaching out to Martin’s mind out of curiosity, leaning into the wulfenite’s resistance and pushing ever so slightly, the wish to know drawing him in until Tim pulls himself back out of respect for Martin’s privacy. If he needs some mental space to think, that’s more than okay.

Tim just hopes he’s not thinking negative thoughts.

He hopes Martin isn’t falling back into dark waters, the kind that swirl with self-hatred and anger, the ugly waves that had slowly melted away revealing a cold, clear Scandinavian sea. He hopes the oceans stay blue and beautiful. He hopes Martin knows that both Tim and Mads would be more than happy to listen to him.

 

_ Time to prove it,  _ thinks Tim, snapping back to the present. “Yes?” Tim answers Martin softly, a little drowsy from being so comfortable in his spot on Mads’s chest, curled up like a cat while flopping an arm across Martin, holding him close, too.

He toys with the delicate golden links under his fingertips. Martin even wears his beautiful green orb of wulfenite while sleeping, now, keeping his mind and thoughts penned up while leather string and silver chain mingle on the bedside jewellery cushion. “I…” begins Martin, and Tim doesn’t yet know where this will end up.

When Martin only stutters and sighs and silences himself, Mads hugs him. “Take your time,  _ smukke, _ no need to rush.”

A soft rush of breath carries the conversation into a peaceful lull. “I don’t know…" Martin confesses at last, "am I- … am I enough for you? Am I treating you well? Am I being as good to you as I possibly can?” he wonders aloud. 

Tim stares at him with wide, blank eyes, and at his side, Mads does the same. Silence reigns for a few awkward seconds.

Embarrassed, Martin blushes and turns away. “Sorry, stupid question,” he mumbles, burying his face into the gap between the pillow and Mads’s cheek in a vain attempt to hide his face, and Mads immediately shifts Martin in his embrace to hold him between them without room for escape, managing to kiss his cheeks despite Martin’s squirming attempts to drop the topic.

“It’s not stupid,” Tim murmurs, tracing Martin’s jawline with light fingers, “it just has an obvious answer.”

“Martin, love, you’re more than enough,” says Mads with the same radiating waves of positivity and happiness and pure warmth in his heart as Tim does, both trying their best to reassure Martin, “and you always treat us well.”

“Always,” Tim agrees, “you always try your hardest to be good to us, and we try our hardest to be good to you.”

Martin doesn't seem convinced. “But do I do enough?” he asks, “Is what I do for you enough? Should I do more? I could try to do more…”

 

Gently, Tim sighs and kisses Martin’s nose, sighing again when Martin just dodges his eyes to the side instead of giggling or smiling up at Tim. “Martin, you baked me a cake for winning MVP against Rogue.”

“Yeah, and it turned out awful and I had to redo it, and you almost fell asleep because it took me so long,” Martin mumbles. “And even then the frosting didn’t taste right.”

“Martin, you  _ still _ made me a cake. No one else ever did that for me since I joined a team, and it made me so happy that you did. And the only reason you thought the frosting tasted weird,” Tim adds with a nostalgic smile, “was because you added extra sugar because you know I like sweet things, and that was so sweet of you. I loved that cake.”

“B-but Mads could have done it better…” Martin protests. But the icy insecurity over his blue eyes is slowly melting away and Tim and Mads envelop him in more loving warmth.

“But  _ you _ did it and it was amazing!” Mads says happily, squeezing Martin’s waist tightly to him. For a moment, Martin smiles and blushes, flattered, though he quickly begins to chew at his lips again.

“Is that enough though?” he asks nervously, eyes flitting from Mads’s to Tim’s with worry. “I- is just stuff like that enough?”

“It shows you’re always thinking about us, doesn’t it?” Tim’s smile is broad and loving, and he can tell by the way that Martin ducks his head that it’s starting to click. “That’s already enough.”

“You know,  _ kaereste, _ you’re also amazing at helping us with just what we need,” Mads continues. He trails his hand up Martin’s spine as Martin shivers at the touch, then strokes Martin’s hair, his every action oozing fondness for their nervous boyfriend.

 

“What do you mean?”

Mads chuckles. “Well, you always know just when to talk and when I would rather just listen to music, and you know when Tim is overworking himself-”

 

“I do not overwork myself!”

 

“-and how to distract him,” Mads finishes, laughing at Tim’s pout without a trace of malice in his tone.

At the face his mid-laner makes, Martin chuckles too. Still, “it’s only natural to learn stuff like that when it’s obvious and I care,” Martin argues, but he’s beginning to smile more and more, so much less worried about what he might be doing wrong and so much more celebratory of what he’s doing right. Tim’s pout fades to a grin that gets stronger and stronger as Martin lets go of his anxieties.

“We were with Rasmus for two years and he never figured that out.” Mads points out, another chip in Martin’s worrying ways.

“W-well, he probably had other things on his mind.” A sham excuse, one that shows just how much Martin’s fear has crumbled. For a moment, Tim distantly hopes that Rasmus pays more attention to his boyfriends on G2 - Mihael doesn't deserve to be hurt in the least.

“But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re amazing," Tim continues with so much love in his voice that the furrow between Martin's brows finally melts away.

 

“T-thank you,” he murmurs.

They all hug each other tightly, more than happy to have reassured Martin and assuaged his pains.

“We’re gonna make it through together,” says Mads, after a while of nuzzling and cuddling them, “we’re gonna stick together. And even if we don’t, we’re gonna enjoy what we have because what we have is amazing.”

“It is,” echoes Martin.

“It is,” echoes Tim.

 

And their normal, calm, nightly routine of gentle affections, soft pets and backrubs and kisses, resumes. Martin slips the beautiful necklace off and lets the gold chain pool itself alongside silver and leather, fully confident in its worthiness now.

 

Martin falls asleep quickly, his tired eyes and tired soul given permission to rest without worry, and Mads follows soon after. But Tim can’t sleep for a while, though he snuggles tightly against Mads’s chest and breathes in time with his Swede’s rises and falls, letting the rhythm permeate his body and weigh it down with sleepiness. Still, his mind remains wide awake, enraptured by the ones he shares his bed with.

 

They’re beautiful like this, unaware, but so beautiful, sleeping together. Periodically, Martin’s eyelashes flutter as he worms his way closer to Mads and Tim until Mads’s broad chest is supporting both Tim and Martin, cuddled close by their own power and Mads’s arms holding them near. Occasionally Mads’s breathing hitches in his throat, a cute, quick little gasp in his dreams that makes Tim want to kiss his cheek every time. Sometimes Martin hums, too, a contented hum that warms the hearth of Tim’s heart as the ADC expresses his unconscious comfort so adorably that Tim can’t help but smile, and Martin’s breath whistles softly in the midnight quiet. And of course, the way they all always fall asleep holding each other so tight stokes a blazing love for them in Tim’s chest.

 

He lets their own version of nighttime peace fill his mind with drifting thoughts of his boyfriends’ smiles as he closes his eyes at last and his dreams meld his thoughts into a sweet, joyous haze.

 

\---

 

The Spring Split ends and Fnatic are on fire, blazing through the rankings with an 8-game winning streak. So, not a perfect second half, but a damn good finish, and Tim is so excited for his first LEC playoffs that he can barely sleep some nights, only dragged down into the sheets by how irresistible Martin is when he begs for something or how charming Mads can be when he really wants Tim to listen to him. On the night before they face Vitality, his boyfriends even resort to chamomile tea - a surefire tactic learned from Crownshot - to get him to bed. After the 3-0 that just gets easier and easier as the games went on, though, the three of them stay up late together in celebration, both Tim and Martin giving gratuitous tokens of affection to their MVP boyfriend, watching another movie Tim cares nothing for while he teases and distracts them, and the playful mid-laner giggles happily as Mads jokingly whines and rewinds the movie a few minutes each time he loses focus. Tim doesn’t mind at all if it means he gets to spend more time sprawled across Martin and Mads’s laps.

Victory over Splyce is more hard-fought - well, facing any team would have been more difficult than taking down that Vitality squad. The games went longer, the matchups more intense, but a 3-1 is still very respectable on Fnatic’s end, and Tim, Martin, and Mads celebrate again, with cuddles and relaxation time after so long on stage. 

Much to Mads and Martin’s amusement, Tim falls off the sofa as they’re cuddling. As always, he pouts at first, but the surge of love and joy and affection that pours through his brain is well-worth the mild inconvenience, and the way Mads carries him back to their bed is acceptable repayment for laughing at him.

 

Rotterdam is far less enjoyable.

 

\---

 

Just being in Rotterdam, away from the new home he’s made over the Split at both the office and Martin’s flat, away from the Berlin streets he knows from walking as a trio, away from what is under his umbrella of knowledge, and living out of a hotel for a few days is weird. It unsettles him, like there’s something not quite right about where he is. Like he doesn’t belong.

To a certain extent, none of them do, not here, not in this foreign land that they aren’t from. Youngbuck is happy to be home - he’s the only one who seems at ease. Of the players, Martin knows the area, at least, from 2016 in Rotterdam where he placed third with Fnatic. 

 

For all Tim and Mads and Martin and all the staff joke about how history won’t repeat itself for Fnatic and will instead carry them on Youngbuck’s coattails, it’s a lingering thought in Tim’s head that it might just happen. They might just lose to Origen before even making it to face G2. 

 

He is quiet the night before the competition, the night before they either get a chance to win it all or lose out, and his nerves are noticeable and unsettling to his two boyfriends, who try their hardest to distract him with silly games about cheesy picks and reminiscing over the Split they’ve had so far. It works to send him to sleep with happy memories to preoccupy his mind.

It doesn’t work to soothe his nervousness when he wakes up.

 

Then again, maybe he doesn’t deserve to be soothed since they lose the series anyway.

 

A 3-1, two games wasted on Sona-Taric, and Tim returns to his hotel room feeling utterly destroyed. Logically, he knows they weren’t. He knows they put up a good fight and didn’t let OG take them easily.

 

It still fucking hurts, though.

 

Tim knows that he really should try to talk to his boyfriends when Mads reenters their shared space and Martin ditches his one-person room to visit their suite because it’s better to talk it out than let the disappointment fester…

But that’s just what it is. Disappointment. Anger. Unfairness. Come on, OG went 0-3 against G2, at least give Fnatic a chance, surely Tim could do something! Let him face Mihael on the big stage, let him fight alongside his boyfriends against one of his best friends, let him show that he can match his counterpart!

But no. They lose.

 

To Martin’s credit, he tries his hardest to stop them from thinking about the loss. He pulls up stupid clown fiesta VODs, he finds highlight reels that are actually interesting for them, he keeps Mads and Tim preoccupied with talk and banter and teasing, managing to get Mads to loosen up and stop thinking about the loss. Meanwhile, Tim smiles and does his best to show that he’s alright. Though Martin’s eyes have the slightest shadow of concern still, Tim’s false front works well enough that Martin accepts it, and Martin holds their hands tightly while they distract themselves with whatever random shows they find online. When Mads’s eyelids begin to droop and the tiredness from Martin becomes mentally noticeable, Tim mimics Mads’s sleepiness and does his best to fall asleep as Martin sets his laptop to the side and holds Tim close. “Taking the loss okay?” he asks gently. Mads is barely able to keep his eyes open, but he spoons Tim happily when Martin repositions them on the bed to put Tim in the middle.

“Yeah,” Tim sighs. “Could be worse, I guess.”

“Not exactly the answer I was hoping for,” Martin murmurs with a sad smile. He plays with Tim’s hair, running a hand through the fluffy mess, and kisses Tim’s nose fondly. “If you want to talk about it, we’re here for you. We’ve been through this sort of stuff already, you know? We know what it’s like.”

With a shaky exhale, Tim leans into the tight hug Martin gives him, hugging Martin back and trying to relax, to let go of his worries and stop his stupid brain from poring over every mistake he made against Nukeduck, every mishap in a teamfight, every poor decision in that series, but hours pass by. Martin is sound asleep against him, snoring in a light, high pitch, with arms holding him close. Behind Tim lays Mads’s comforting and solid presence and another set of arms doing their best to comfort him with proximity and love expressed in gentle, careful touches. 

 

As much as Tim would love to say that his boyfriends can talk him down and soothe the pain of a loss, his mind can’t stop whirring. 

 

_ Run, run, run. _

_ From his flaws. From his mistakes. From his errors. _

_ Run, run, run. _

_ To his future. To his hope. To his improvement. _

_ If he wants to get better, he needs to train better. _

_ His loss is on him. _

 

_ There's so much trash in his little grove, so many scraps of bloody cloth and broken metal, so many torn pictures, ripped screenshots of his failures… He needs to pick them up; he won't be able to rest until he does. But he can't force himself to look at the rubbish right now. _

_ Instead, he runs. _

_ There's infinite looping path through the woods, and he can’t hold himself back from letting his mind run wild on them. He needs to practice. He needs to find a computer. _

 

_ There’s no point in even trying to sleep any more, anyway. _

 

With an inaudible sigh, Tim sets his overactive mind to the task of trying to figure out how to get out of the tangle of limbs he’s caught in the middle of. Martin and Mads’s thoughts are soft right now, like blankets on a bed or a nest of pillows piled up on a sofa, indicating that they’re both fairly deep in sleep and that Tim might have a decent chance at getting out without disturbing their rest. Carefully, he tries to worm his way out at first, attempting in vain to wriggle up and pull his legs past them. That idea doesn’t get him anywhere since the headboard is in the way and Mads and Martin’s pretty faces are in the way of where Tim would wiggle out from. After another moment of deeper thought, Tim just decides to shift their arms off of him gently, dropping their hands to the side to free himself from the tangled web they weave with limbs. Once their arms are out of the way, Tim simply places their hands on each other. As expected, Martin and Mads end up intertwined, hugging each other in Tim’s absence before Tim even makes it out of the room. It’s one of the prettiest pictures Tim has ever seen - his two beloved boyfriends, both also so in love, clinging tightly and providing comfort to each other with those practised rhythms that Tim loves to watch so much. He sits back down on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb their slumber, and trails a hand through Martin's hair and over Mads's shoulder.

 

Unfortunately, Tim still can’t stop thinking, so he kisses their cheeks with a feather-light touch, takes Martin’s crappy old laptop, downloads League, and logs into a smurf. His battered earbuds replace his high-tech headset. A spare mouse from the computer bag serves in his own mouse's stead. He'll have to make do without a mousepad. The hotel desk is awkward for him to use, but Tim tries anyway.

He ends up moving his crude setup into the bathroom and shutting the door out of fear that he might wake one of his beloveds with his noisy clicking on Martin’s cheap wireless mouse, nothing other than the bare tile to smoothe Tim’s gameplay. As soon as the client boots up, he loads into a game, immediately mutes everything, and settles into his ways as a superstar mid-laner.

Sadly, the only game Tim gets to play before he’s noticed missing is a fun, albeit fast, Akali game.

 

He's so out of it, he doesn't even notice the foggy minds of his boyfriends drawing nearer.

“Tim?” Martin calls as he knocks, startling Tim's unattentive mind. Martin doesn't bother to be quiet, which worries Tim until a second, more powerful set of knocks and the suddenly very-noticeable disgruntled aura of a freshly-awoken Mads show that everyone in their little suite is awake. 

Not hearing any objections, Martin steps into the room before Tim has the chance to conceal anything.

 

When Mads and Martin open the door, they stand there, momentarily stunned by surprise. “Hi?” Tim tries, not sure he likes how Martin’s sleepy face crumples into sadness at Tim sitting on the bathroom floor with a laptop on his thighs and a game still going. 

Well, maybe Mads’s look of pure pity and shock is worse.

“Tim, honey, what are you doing awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he answers truthfully,  _ you know I don’t sleep well after losses. _ Usually, he’d just play soloQ at the office until his eyes felt like they would bleed, but they’re only in Rotterdam for a few days, and their computer setups are on a different floor, one that is probably locked considering how late - or maybe early - it is at this point. He sighs and rubs at his eyes, feeling like a disappointment.

His boyfriends sit down beside him on the cold tile floor, one on each side. For a few minutes, they watch him play, with bleary, tired eyes and deep yawns as they try to stay awake, though Tim can feel Mads slumping against him more and more and soon enough Mads is sleeping on his shoulder. “Finish that game and then we’re going back to bed, okay?” mumbles Martin, also resting his chin on Tim’s shoulder.

It takes some time before Tim responds. "N-no, I have to practice," he murmurs, caught between the desire to sleep cuddled between them and the desperate urge to keep on improving. In the end, he compromises with a soft “...okay.”

 

If he’s keeping them up, he should go back to bed and let them sleep. Once they're comfortable again, he can just leave.

 

“Tim,  _ sötnis,” _ Martin hums with a little grin and a kiss to his cheek, “you won't get any better, playing when you're already exhausted. You'll just burn out."

Under his breath, Tim mutters complaints, but Martin's words are ultimately true, and he can't deny it. 

"Besides," Martin continues even though Tim has already agreed, "there are  _ much  _ better ways to spend a night than playing the game that drives you insane already.” He slides a hand behind Tim’s lower back, rubbing his hip affectionately and watching Tim’s face for a reaction. The soft, shaky breath Tim lets out seems to embolden Martin. “If… if you’re up to it, and you’d like us to distract you for a bit… I’d be happy to,” he suggests. The way his hands move on Tim’s body makes it very clear what kind of distraction Martin is talking about as he kisses up Tim’s neck and caresses the curve of his back, and Tim shivers when Mads’s hands join in. 

"O-okay," he stutters, the cursor still moving on the screen rapidly though Tim's movements are jerky and wobbly from lack of sleep and his attention being diverted. By a miracle named DanDan carrying his team, Tim wins, and as he closes the game window, he looks at his boyfriends leaning against him, snoozing. 

They don't seem to be aware that his game has ended.  _ Maybe I can get away with another game? _

 

He starts up a second queue, hoping with bated breath that it will pop before either Mads or Martin stirs - Tim doesn't quite deserve to sleep yet, though the boundless running paths have reforested slightly thanks to Martin and Mads's quiet support of him - and he's lucky enough to pop one quickly. Akali gets locked in for Tim as he tries to make as much of the game the same as his previous one, to make it seem at first glance that his singular match just isn't over yet, and he chews at his lip while his teammates take their sweet time choosing champions. 

Tim almost curses when someone dodges, only held back by the need to keep silent. The stressful process begins anew, but he makes it through picks and bans and miraculously gets his Akali for the third time in a row, thanking every power that may be when the loading screen appears, then kicking himself when some Diamond player takes a disgusting amount of time to load.

 

"I thought we agreed on one game?" 

The sudden sound of Martin's voice in the midnight silence makes Tim jump, unfortunately waking Mads, and he looks down at his hands in shame while his boyfriends gently pull the computer off his lap and onto the tile. Weakly, he reaches for it only to be cut off by Mads.

“Please, come back to bed with us?" asks Mads with an arm in front of Tim, holding him back from the computer. "It’s cold without you there…” Mads sighs, hugging Tim’s upper body to him and speaking right into Tim’s ear with a husky, low baritone, even deeper and rougher than normal; the timbre of Mads's voice when it gets like this is a simple magic, but an effective one, especially when combined with gentle touches.

 

On Tim's other side, Martin rubs his back. “Baby, you feel cold, too… Come on, let’s warm you up.”

With a shuddering sigh, Tim murmurs, "I can't."

"What?"

"Why not?"

"I have to get better," Tim says quietly, "we can't lose again, I have to get better…"

 

Mads and Martin both sigh, letting him lean into their warmth and loving comfort. "You won't get better like this," Mads says firmly. "Keeping yourself awake and spamming soloQ won't help us win; it just makes you more tired and sad."

"Believe me," Martin chimes in with a dry laugh, "I've tried. It doesn't help." Gently, Martin kisses Tim's cheek and pushes him up into Mads's lap, where he can't help but curl sleepily into a ball. "Bed?" Martin asks again. 

"If you still can't sleep, we'll help you," Mads murmurs, and finally Tim accepts. 

 

With no small amount of relief, Martin gets to his feet and, after letting go of Tim, so does Mads, though not before crouching to scoop Tim into his arms again despite the tiredness evident in Mads's voice and thoughts. 

Snuggled against Mads's chest, Tim blinks slowly, like a sleepy kitten. He's carried as easily as if he were one, and Mads sets him in the middle of the bed and crawls in next to him, pulling the mussed blankets up over the three of them. Martin is already curled up against Tim's side. 

After just a few minutes go by, Mads is already breathing smoothly again. So is Martin, though their minds are busy enough that Tim can tell they're not completely asleep yet. 

He contemplates another game. Unfortunately, their arms are even tighter around him than before, wound around his body both to warm him up and to keep him from slipping away again, and Tim doesn't think he can manage a getaway. 

Cautiously, he tries anyway. Just as he thought, Martin and Mads both wake up when he tries to nudge their arms aside.

A concerned look from Martin greets him when he turns back. "Try to get some sleep," the Swede murmurs, kissing Tim's brow.

"I am," responds Tim in a frustrated whuff of breath. "It's not working."

 

Martin's expression softens. "Should I get your mind off of Origen and keep your attention on me? I know some ways how," he says, somewhat seductively, kissing Tim again. He keeps his touches light and not too suggestive until Tim murmurs a quiet agreement, after which Martin's kisses grow heated. Behind him, Mads joins in, seeming to have been waiting eagerly by the way his large, strong hands rush to grip Tim's waist as Martin traces the indent of his hips, still kissing Tim deeply, and Mads presses his lips to a spot on Tim's neck that makes him shudder. A whimper claws its way out of Tim's throat, colliding with Martin's mouth. 

All at once, tens of dreams and ideas and images of what they might do next flood through his mind, both Mads and Martin thinking of ways to pleasure him. Tim sees himself beneath Mads again and filled up so fully, he sees himself with hands inside of him until he comes and Martin laps it off his stomach, himself making out sloppily with Martin while straddling Mads's hips, a thick cock inside of him as he moans and squirms. Visions of his body flushed pink while Martin's lips leave him breathless, and his face blushing as he pounds into Martin's ass, and him scrabbling at the sheets with Mads fucking him forward into Martin's mouth flicker like a movie reel in his head. He can't help but moan into Martin's fierce kiss.

 

The soft giggle he gets in response sends a rush of heat through his gut. "So," Martin croons, straddling Tim's hips, "what should we do with you?"

"I- I'm not sure," Tim murmurs. The soft rain of kisses to his neck that follows distracts his thoughts and pushes him further into a sweet, pink mental sunset even as he tries to decide on something, anything. “I haven’t really done anything like this,” he confesses quietly, “not with two people at once…” 

His boyfriends nuzzle into his neck. He can feel their lips curling up into grins, still pressed against his skin, and a trail of soft touches ends in his own lips meeting Martin’s gentle, reassuring smile. “Don’t worry,” Martin says between butterfly kisses all over Tim’s face, “we’ll do something quick and easy, then. Can I suck you off?”

Tim’s eyes blow wide. Suddenly, he’s perfectly alert again. “Yes,” he says. Mads chuckles at his firm enthusiasm.

 

With an equally tender and sultry grin, Martin kisses Tim again, tongue diving deep into Tim’s mouth and likely tasting nothing but faint traces of toothpaste, yet Martin moans happily as he pulls back to make a new trail of kisses and touches down Tim’s neck, pushing Tim’s shirt up slightly to continue the faint marks on his tummy, inching closer and closer to the waistband of Tim’s sweatpants. In the meantime, Mads nudges the blankets aside so their beauty can be seen more clearly, even in the faint light only emanating from the window. Tim shivers at the loss of warmth and the teasing touches over his stomach and kisses Mads deeper. In response to Martin’s carefully teasing finger tugging at his waistband, Tim jolts his hips up eagerly, already half-hard just from passively tuning in to his jungler and ADC’s fantasies involving him, and Martin giggles fondly against Tim’s groin.

“Please,” Tim murmurs as he briefly breaks away from Mads’s lips, though he quickly returns to them as though he’s addicted - keeping quiet gives him a good excuse to indulge in open-mouthed kisses with his boyfriends, full of soft lip-smacks and faint whines. He’s already hooked on their lips on his. Maybe he could get addicted to something like this, as well. Martin pulls Tim’s sweatpants and briefs down just enough to reveal his dick, and Martin immediately presses his lips against the tip, stroking Tim until he’s fully hard and Tim is whimpering under his touch. 

 

“Cute,” Martin comments offhandedly. “Are you ready?”

With a heated gaze and a beautiful flush over his cheeks, Tim glances down at Martin and shyly nods.

Mads’s lips can barely muffle Tim’s cry as Martin wraps his pretty pink lips around Tim’s cock.

Tim shivers and shakes with the effort to hold his noises in, keeping Mads’s head in a tight hold so that he can muffle his moans in Mads’s lips. Unfortunately for him, Mads manages to part them regardless, to murmur, “just relax, let us take care of you, okay? We’ll take care of you, just like you take care of us,” and a shaky whine escapes Tim’s throat. He can’t help it. Martin’s mouth is just so hot, so wet, so tight with how he hollows his cheeks and works his tongue around Tim’s shaft in a way that leaves Tim breathless. And Tim’s Swede knows just how to look up at him with wide, slightly-teary green eyes that flood Tim’s gut with heat. With a wink and a grin, like he’s enjoying sucking Tim off more than anything else in the world right now, Martin moans in delight and giggles as Mads groans, moaning more as Tim echoes his moans. The vibration races up and down Tim’s spine like lightning strikes.

 

Before he even knows it, so soothed and lulled into a sleepy, pleasure-filled haze, the forests in his mind fogged over in shades of lust-filled pink and Martin’s green and Mads’s blue, Tim spills into Martin’s eagerly-waiting mouth with a high, wavering moan and his eyelashes flutter as Martin swallows it all. “Cute,” Martin says again - or maybe he thinks it? Tim isn’t 100% sure what’s vocal and what is just thought any more. He smiles a gummy, dazed smile at Martin when Martin tucks him back into his pyjamas and snuggles up to him again, smiling fondly and kissing him, and Martin laughs at the childish face Tim makes at the taste of his own bitter come on Martin’s tongue. Martin gives him eskimo kisses instead. “Feel better?”

“Mmhmm,” Tim murmurs with that same broad grin. Their hands massage his entire body in calming, steady lines that let his eyes finally slip shut, and he says “thank you,” quietly, in the space between conscious thought and becoming just part of the mindmeld around him, full of warmth and laughter and blue-green-grey.

 

_ But the sparkling pink of ecstasy soon fades, and as the rosy fog, the one obstacle preventing his mind from running through the forest track, lifts, so too does Tim’s ability to keep his raving brain in check. Green-tinted clouds block off anything not directly on Tim’s running trail, yes. But the trail itself remains open, and Tim’s feet itch to go darting down it, to bound from foothold to foothold and let his brain loose, even if it means wreaking havoc on his self-esteem. _

 

The arms around him are so strong and comforting. And really, Mads and Martin’s efforts to help him sleep are so valiant; Tim feels awful about how it’s turning out… but it’s just not working. His mind whirrs much slower now, drowsy from sex and the ensuing flood of endorphins, but it’s whirring nonetheless, and as he lies there in his boyfriends’ arms, minute after minute ticking by until half an hour builds up in the interim, Tim starts to think it’s futile. Why even keep trying? He shifts his weight slightly and attempts to sit up, though since Martin’s arms are practically woven around him and Mads is squeezing them both tight, it’s impossible. Frustratedly, Tim sighs and pouts.

 

“Still can’t sleep?” Mads whispers, though even his whisper seems loud in the empty night air, with no other sound other than Martin’s soft nasal wheeze and their breaths to harmonise with it.

With another sigh, Tim admits “no.” A quiet but strong air of helpful, calming presence emanates from Mads’s mind as he hugs Tim closer to his chest and pulls Martin, who mumbles in his sleep and snuggles his face into the crook of Tim’s neck, into the cuddling as well. Gently, Tim caresses Martin’s hair. “ ‘M sorry,” he murmurs, “it’s just not working well enough. But thank you anyway.” He brushes his lips against Mads’s cheek as he smiles sadly.

“But it worked at least in part, right?” asks Mads hopefully, “Would you like me to help? I can jerk you off quickly?”

Tim sighs again. Maybe… maybe it would help. Maybe it would fog up the forests in Tim’s mind enough that his racing brain runs out of places it can run to. Maybe it could stop Tim from overthinking, just this once - maybe in the future, too… “Okay,” Tim replies, trying to carefully pry Martin off of him to roll over and face Mads, only to be hushed into staying where he is.

“Don’t move, it’s okay, I’ll take care of you,” soothes Mads. He gently slips the tips of his fingers into Tim’s briefs, grazing Tim’s dick with the tips of his fingers. “Oh. We don’t have any lube. Uhh… do you mind if we just use spit? I’ll clean you up afterwards, of course.”

“That’s fine,” Tim mumbles, half-hard and so, so desperate for the rest that has been denied to him by his own stupid, overactive brain. He leans into Mads’s mind, instead, and into Martin’s quiet sleepy thoughts about kittens and Tim and fluffy blankets and cute ferrets, and Tim lets himself soak in peaceful thoughts, hoping they might overcome the painfully acrid sting of his sharp-edged failures playing on loop.

 

When combined with a warm, slick hand on his cock, the softer thoughts win out.

Before a moan can fall from his lips, Tim claps a hand over his mouth, dampening the noise to a faint whimper in the hopes that it won’t disturb Martin’s sleep. Mads chuckles almost silently. He keeps rubbing, keeps tweaking the head ever so lightly, keeps kissing Tim’s neck so sweetly. Tim is coming before he even knows it, with a stuttering gasp and a moan just loud enough to spur Martin into hugging him, sleep slightly disturbed. He almost apologises for the mess he’s made, but Mads just smiles and kisses his cheek, vanishing for what feels like scarcely an instant before he’s back and suddenly Tim is clean and redressed.

By a small miracle, Tim is awake enough to realise that he’s dozing off between memorable moments, and with the last waking consciousness he has, he feels Mads slip into bed next to him and Martin and hug them both to his chest. “Thanks,” Tim mumbles, on his way to sleep at last, “for everything.”

 

_ The forests are filled with fog, and, though not without reluctance, Tim must retreat to his home grove. The track is closed for tonight. There shall be no more mind running out of control, no more inability to get away from thoughts of insecurity that plague him… Slovenian forests fill with blue and green and grey-tinted clouds, all blended together in a beautiful medley, a perfect melody. _

 

“For everything,” Tim repeats.

He’s sound asleep before he even feels Mads kiss the tip of his nose in response.

 

\---

 

The night is deep, and the dreams and cuddles sweet, and there is no sleeplessness, only sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a good, crazy-long run. writing this was fun, if sometimes exhausting, and your comments bring me immeasurable happiness. i'm glad so many of you enjoyed this little mind-reading concept i had that spiralled wildly out of control ^_^'  
> if you made it to the end of this long, long fic, let me know what you thought!  
> thank you so much for reading!


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